BROKEN: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan's Wings MC)

by West, Naomi

  He took another deep breath, waited for the next line.

  “Will you accept the charges?”

  “Yes,” Cutter replied, trying hard to contain his annoyance.

  “Cutter?” Jersey's voice came on the line, his voice haggard and bedraggled. “That you, brother?”

  “Yeah, it's me, Jersey,” Cutter replied and sighed. “You holding up alright?”

  “You know it, brother. Just calling to let you know my arraignment ain't for a couple days, and I clearly ain't going to be in to work this morning.”

  Cutter let the silence hang for a minute, waited for Jersey to fill the gap in himself.

  “Sorry for having to call out,” Jersey mumbled. To his credit, he did sound genuinely sorry for the inconvenience. Not that it mattered much, but it was the thought that count.

  “We'll hold the line,” Cutter said. He had to bite back the questions he had. What had he done? Was the deed something that concerned the MC? Instead, he continued on like this was no big deal, and his line cook called in incarcerated every couple weeks or so. “I'll send one of the guys round and we'll get bail posted soon as we can.”

  “Thanks, man,” Jersey replied. Both men knew not to discuss the crime over the phone. Whatever the cops had arrested him on may have been bullshit charges, or he may have been guilty as sin. But, you didn't have talks like that over a line you knew was being monitored. Hell, you didn't have conversations like that over the phone. Period. That was the first rule of business.

  “Stay strong, brother,” Cutter said and hung up first.

  Months had passed since one of the guys had gotten picked up on a charge. They’d beaten the courts, on that case. Mainly because the victim in the assault case dropped their charges after a little talk with Cutter. But, that was beside the point, right now. First thing, they had to get the restaurant open for business. Secondly, they had to get Jersey out from behind bars. None of his crew deserved to spend any more than the absolute minimum in jail, no matter how badly they'd screwed him on shifts at the restaurant.

  Cutter pulled his phone out and started to make his calls. He hoped his second in command, Smalls, had his phone turned up loud enough to hear through his drunken stupor. Otherwise it was going to be a long day. A long, shitty day.

  As he listened to Smalls's phone ring on the other end of the line, his gaze swept the room and landed on the bulletin board next to the big metal walk-in refrigerator where they stored all their prepped food. He'd pinned a wedding invitation to the cork board a few months back. An old flame of his from way back in high school, Liona Copeland, was getting married to Wyland West, Cutter's former best friend. Why she'd sent one of the elaborate cards to him, even after all these years, Cutter had no idea. But, now, after one look at that invitation, all those old feelings, those yearnings came back to him.

  He realized that the wedding was supposed to be today. Today of all days. He turned his gaze away and focused on the wall. Smalls's phone just kept ringing. Shit.

  Cutter sighed. Even if he did get a hold of his second in command, this was already shaping up to be a brutal day.

  Chapter 2

  Liona

  The sun shown in through the windows of the bride room, nestled at the back of the church. It was Liona Copeland's wedding day. She had no idea how she was going to go through with marrying the son of a bitch. What had she been thinking getting this far into everything?

  “Look up for me, honey,” said the makeup artist, an attractive young woman with a mascara brush daintily held in one hand who looked like something out of a ‘Riot Grrl’ magazine spread. She leaned forward and applied the mascara, sculpting Liona's eyelashes up and out, thickening and elongating them.

  Done, the younger woman turned back to her makeup case and began rummaging for the next tool in her arsenal. Liona took the opportunity to watch the light dance on the far wall, wishing she could be just like a ray of sunlight. Shooting out into the galaxy, and somewhere far, far away from here.

  Just, please, take me anywhere but here.

  “You look gorgeous,” her oldest friend and maid of honor Carly cooed from behind her. She looked stunning in her burgundy bridesmaid gown. She had slipped in a few moments prior, but hadn't said a word as the young makeup artist applied Liona's makeup. Now, she came up behind Liona and put her hands on her bare shoulders, squeezed softly. “You're going to look so beautiful up there, next to Wyland.”

  Liona forced a smile. She didn't feel gorgeous or beautiful. Instead, she felt like a sucker, like someone who was just going along for the ride. She knew deep down that none of this was worth the fancy clothes, the nice car, or the beautiful apartment Wyland provided for her with his salary and trust fund. She was a woman kept in a gilded cage, a pretty pet he could keep on his arm and display for all his family friends and future political donors. She was arm candy, and every time she thought about it, she wanted to wretch.

  Carly's eyes glanced down, caught the look in Liona's. “You feeling okay, hon?”

  Liona closed her eyes and shook her head. “Just nervous, that's all,” she partially lied. She was nervous, that was true. But, she was also terrified. Her husband-to-be was Wyland West, the junior district attorney. His family went far back in this town, and he had connections everywhere. He was handsome, well connected, and well heeled. He had graduated top of his class at law school, and he had big plans for his future. And mine, she thought disdainfully.

  To her friends and family, he was a catch. Wyland was almost the perfect man, it seemed. He took care of all her financial needs, giving her an ample allowance and everything she could want. But, like all things, if a deal was too good to be true, it probably was.

  She almost spat the words out, just then: that Wyland had gotten physical with her. Had been getting physical with her for a while now. But, Liona knew she'd just look like a fool for letting her confession spill out of her that way, especially after the years and years of torment he'd put her through.

  Why hadn't she told them sooner, they'd ask. Why had she agreed to marry him?

  For years, she'd thought everything would just magically get better. That he'd eventually lose that punchy tendency of his, to enforce his words with his hands. Her situation had only gotten worse and worse as she'd slipped more and more under his control. And now, she didn't know how to get out from under his thumb.

  He wouldn't let her get a job, or have friends he didn't approve of. Yes, she had money, but she was questioned about every penny she spent. She'd thought about just running away, about hopping on a plane and taking off for some part of the country, never to be seen or heard from again. Maybe get a passport and flee the country.

  But how would she live? She hadn't had a job in years, and all her money was tied up in accounts he controlled. And, if Liona ever said a word, deep down she knew what would happen to her. She felt it, without being able to describe how. He'd kill her.

  For that reason, she didn't even want to imagine what bringing children into that life would be like. She'd be even more in his clutches, then. And, knowing him, he'd use the children against her. He was just that kind of man: small, petty, sadistic.

  “You sure?” Carly asked again, concern in her voice. “Want me to get you a pop or something, to keep your blood sugar up?”

  No, she didn't want a pop. She wanted to fly away, sail upon the wind like a fallen leaf, and land somewhere, anywhere, just so long as her destination wasn't here.

  “Sure,” Liona replied, instead, a fake smile on her lips, “that sounds great.”

  Carly bustled out of the room to go find her friend a drink.

  “Almost finished,” the makeup artist said. “Already had your hair stylist in, I see.”

  “Just before you,” Liona replied. “In and out, and working on the rest of us, now.”

  “You know, I gotta say you're taking this really well.”

  “How so?” Liona asked as the younger woman pulled out her setting spray.

  “
Well, for one,” the makeup artist said as she shook the bottle, “you're a lot calmer than most of the brides I deal with. Most of them are flying off the handle, frantic about this being their perfect day.”

  “Well,” Liona said, closing her eyes as the woman began to spray her face, “that's why we hired a wedding coordinator. Besides, this was more about what he wanted.”

  “Him?” the woman asked, giving a light chuckle. “That's kind of funny. Most guys I've dated could give two shits about this kind of thing. Hell, my boyfriend thinks we should just do it on the beach.”

  “What about you?” Liona asked.

  “Me? I love weddings. Especially other people's! They pay my rent, after all.” She paused and grinned before continuing. “Mine, though? Beach doesn't sound too shabby, if you ask me.”

  Liona smiled. Years ago, back in high school, she'd known a man like that. The kind of guy who was down to earth, strong, caring, good with his hands. Sure, he'd been a little awkward but looking back, who wasn't at that age?

  She'd chosen Wyland, instead. He promised her a great future, the kind of life she knew growing up. With his family's money and his future career prospects, Liona knew he could deliver on those promises. Not for the first time, she doubted the decision she'd made all those years ago. She didn't even know where he was, anymore. He could be dead for all she knew, or a thousand miles away.

  “Well, this is more to impress his family, and their friends than it is to make me happy,” Liona confided. “If it were up to me, I'd get married by Elvis in a Vegas drive-thru.”

  The girl grinned and began to look over her handiwork. “Almost there,” she said. “Just a few more minutes, and we'll be able to get you in that dress.”

  Liona smiled, grateful she could at least let slip her own views on the wedding, if not her complete fear of the future. That was one small thing she had, at least. One small protest.

  Not that it mattered.

  Chapter 3

  Cutter

  The cops came for Big Jack in the middle of the lunch rush. And they didn't bother with being polite about the arrest, either. If anything, they went out of their way to cause a scene for all the diners in attendance.

  “Can we at least do this outside?” Big Jack asked, his voice as controlled as he could possibly get it. “We've got paying customers in here, officer.” He was next to one of his tables, pitcher of iced tea in hand. Their drinks just sat there, full of ice, and empty of refreshment. It was almost sad, really.

  Smalls had run in back and grabbed Cutter from the kitchen. Now, he stood at the lunch counter in his dirty white chef coat, drying his hands with one of the towels, keeping an eye on everything. First Jersey, now this. He couldn't think of anything else that could go wrong today.

  Big Jack hadn't come by that nickname by chance. At six-six and weighing in at two-sixty, a name like that was kind of a given. He loomed over the cop, his massive build making the matchup with the averagely built officer look almost comical. If things got out of hand, it wasn't going to end well for the boy in blue.

  Jack had done his time in the big house, doing a stretch on possession with intent to distribute. He had been head of that little side venture for the Vanguard for years, and had done a good job. Like all the others, he'd kept his mouth shut and his head down. When he came back, they'd had a position open for him at Farm to Fable. Part of the deal when he came back to the MC, though, was that he kept his nose clean. No former associates outside the crew, and no involvement in the shadier affairs of the business.

  “You talking back to me, boy?” the officer asked, bowing up to the much larger biker. He had three other patrolmen backing him, their radios squawking and beeping the whole time. “I said I was placing you under arrest.”

  “No, I ain't talking back,” Big Jack replied, clearly exasperated. He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “I'm just asking you if we can take this outside.”

  Cutter knew that was his cue to step in. “Jack,” he said, coming out from behind the counter. “I'll take your table. Just go ahead with them, okay?”

  “Cutter,” Jack boomed, his voice starting to rise, “I just want to know what's going on. I didn't do nothing wrong, man.”

  The officer checked out Cutter, sizing him up. Cutter recognized that look. The officer knew who he was, knew his position in the MC. He could practically see the calculations going on behind their eyes.

  “We'll figure it out after the officers do what they need to do,” Cutter said, ignoring the patrolman and reaching out to take the pitcher of tea from Big Jack. “Alright? You ain't gonna win an argument with a cop.”

  Cutter could feel the tensions running high. It was like working in a steaming kitchen with all the burners going, and the over door gaping open. And, with tensions this high, all it would take was a single spark. Jack finally sighed, resigned to his fate. Hands now free, he put his wrists behind his back and turned around to offer his hands to the officer.

  “James Chandler, I'm placing you under arrest for violation of the conditions of your parole,” the officer began as he snapped the cuffs down over Big Jack's wrists. He continued on in a monotonous drone, one that he'd clearly honed over years and years on the job performing similar arrests. This was old hat to him, just like it was old hat for Cutter to dice onions.

  Just like with Jersey, they all knew this game. They all knew to keep their mouths shut, especially when the cops were trying to pin something on them. Cutter just narrowed his eyes as he watched the proceedings. Just like Jersey, too, this hadn't come at the most opportune of times. They were trying to go legit, trying to get out from under all this pressure from the cops. And now, twice in twenty-four hours, the boys in blue had come down on them.

  They began to frog-march Big Jack out through the front doors. “Don't get too comfortable, boys,” said one of the cops back over his shoulder, his tone light and humorous. “New assistant DA says he's got y'all's number.”

  “New DA, huh?” Cutter said to his back. “What's this new guy's name?”

  “Wyland West,” the cop said. Just before he let the door slam shut behind him, he turned back and looked Cutter straight in the eyes. “Y'all folks have a nice day now, ya hear?”

  Wyland West. He felt his blood go cold. The same man who'd ruined things with him and Liona. Cutter's former best friend. Cutter's hands clenched into fists, and his jaw clenched tight. What kind of sick joke was this? Did he want to take everything from him now?

  He watched through the big glass windows as the cops ducked Big Jack into the back of one of their squad cars. Soon, the disturbance was nearly forgotten, and the restaurant returned to its normal hustle and bustle. Minus one six-foot-six waiter, of course. The patrons barely even batted an eye. This was a restaurant run by a bunch of rough-and-tumble biker types, after all.

  As soon as the cops were gone, Cutter disappeared in back. Smalls, his shaggy overweight second in command, followed after him. He looked in even more disarray than normal, his frizzy beard sticking out like every which way. He'd picked up the nickname years before, when he was about seventy-five pounds lighter. Like all nominal names, though, this one had stuck over time, and changing physical attributes. Sometimes, there were things that never changed, no matter how much they actually did.

  “Dude,” Smalls said as the swinging doors shut behind them, “what the fuck? First Jersey, now Big Jack? And what's with this West guy?”

  “I know him,” Cutter said as he began to strip out of his chef coat. “He's an asshole, and apparently our new assistant DA.”

  “You know this guy?” Smalls asked, shock in his voice. He was clearly confused by the whole thing.

  “Yeah, I know the asshole,” Cutter said as he tossed his coat aside and grabbed the wedding invitation down from the bulletin board. “We went to school together. Guess you could say we got history. Need you to get on the phone with Big Jack's lawyer, and let 'em know what's going on, alright? If it's a parole violation, and it
's for real, that means they're going to really try and turn the screws on him.”

  Cutter went over and grabbed his leather jacket down from the peg where he'd hung it that morning. He pulled it on and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Smalls said as he looked around the kitchen with a stunned expression. “Where the fuck you going, dude? You taking off or something? It's the fucking lunch rush, man. On a fucking Saturday!”

  Cutter stopped in his tracks. “Got to, Smalls,” Cutter said as he pushed through the double doors leading back out onto the floor. “There's a wedding I need to attend, and an asshole DA I gotta see.”