CHOPPER: Southside Skulls Motorcycle Club (Southside Skulls MC Romance Book 11)

by Jessie Cooke

  “You know me, Chopper. Whatever you tell me will only go as far as we need for it to, in order to take care of this mess. I know you care about that girl, but most of what we’re doing here is for her, right? I mean, this all started with her.”

  “She’s a good person, Dax. She’s had some really bad breaks. I told you that she’s a recovering addict, but what I didn’t tell you was that her boyfriend used to pimp her out to the highest bidder. Today I found out that she has a kid and that kid’s paternity is in question. There’s going to be a DNA test and a court case. Dax, what if that’s what this is all about? What if someone that paid to fuck Chelsea got her pregnant and doesn’t want anyone to know?” Chopper heard the gasp behind him at the same time Dax was talking on the other end of the phone. With horror in his chest he turned to see Chelsea standing in the doorway in her robe with a cup of something in her hand. Something warm she was bringing to him, when she heard him passing on her most intimate secrets, only minutes after she shared them with him. He hated what he saw in her eyes at that moment, but he knew he deserved every bit of it, and he feared she would never look at him the way she had just a little while ago, again.

  20

  “Chelsea, please talk to me! Please let me in.” Chelsea was in shock when she found Chopper. All she had wanted to do was take him a steaming hot cup of coffee, and she’d opened the door just in time to hear him telling Dax Marshall that Wayne had made her a whore and the pièce de résistance…that she didn’t know who fathered her son. She didn’t even know how to respond to that. She’d just stepped back inside the door, closed and locked it. That was ten minutes ago, and he was still banging on it, begging her to let him in, telling her that he could explain. How? How was he going to explain betraying her confidence like that? This was her fault. It was her fault for putting that much trust in someone she didn’t know. She let herself get fooled into thinking she knew him…again. Her mother was right, she had terrible taste in men and every time she picked one, he led her right back into trouble. Not that she was blaming them. She knew that she followed with her eyes wide open. She just didn’t know why. She’d honestly believed that he was different. “Chelsea…baby…please…” She couldn’t stand it any longer. She went over to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out her iPad and headphones. She put on the headphones and scrolled through the music before selecting one that she knew would lift her spirits, and most importantly, drown him out. “Chelsea…” He sounded desperate, but that was the last she heard of his voice before Kelsea Ballerini’s voice took over, singing her powerful song, “Peter Pan.” Chelsea was beginning to believe it had been written for every man she’d ever known, except for her father. She thought about Reed then, and Celia.

  What she hadn’t gotten around to telling Chopper was that she’d called her sister. Her father suggested it would be better to talk face to face, but Chelsea was worried about what she might do to her sister if she saw her face. How dare she go behind my back like this? She didn’t even talk to their parents first. Who does she think she is?

  The sound of Celia’s voice when she picked up the phone pissed Chelsea off. She was cheery and energetic, until Chelsea started out by going off on her: “You want custody of Reed?”

  “Chelsea?”

  “Of course it’s Chelsea. What the fuck, Celia?”

  “Oh no! I’m not going to be spoken to like that by anyone.”

  “So, you can just claim custody of my child and I’m not supposed to have anything to say about that? What the…why, Celia? What have I ever done to you?”

  “To me, personally? Nothing. But that’s only because I wasn’t there. But to our parents, Chelsea—you nearly killed them both. Dad’s blood pressure is off the charts, did you know that? Mom’s been having heart palpitations. They’re too old to be raising a toddler.”

  “They’re not going to raise him. I’m doing better. I’m doing good. Another six months and…”

  “Another six months, that’s like your mantra now. It’s been another six months with you since the first time you went through rehab. Isn’t six months about how long you go in between relapses?”

  “Why are you being so vicious? I have been working to get better, Celia, for Reed. I love my son and I want to be his mother. I would take him now if I could, but DCF are the ones that set the court date for six months out…”

  “Like I said, because your relapse cycle is every six months. They figure there’s no reason to waste time doing it before then. Time will tell all on its own.”

  “Do you know anything about addiction, Celia?”

  “I can’t say I know a lot about it, Chelsea. But you know why? Because I never tried any of that shit in the first place, and if I had, and I’d put it behind me once, then I sure as hell wouldn’t have done it again, and again. I especially wouldn’t have done it if I knew I was risking the loss of the child that I claimed to love.”

  Chelsea’s body was shaking all over at that point. She had always been in awe of her older sister. Celia was gorgeous, she was smart, she had beautiful children, and she was a perfect mother. Her kids were both in high school and they played sports and made the honor roll. Her family had it all together. Celia had it all together, and Chelsea was always the opposite. How dare she suggest I don’t love my child enough to stay clean?

  “‘Claimed to love?’ Are you suggesting that I don’t love Reed? If you are, you’re crazy. I love that little boy more than my own life. If I had to choose him over my last breath, I’d use whatever I had to tell him that I loved him. He’s my baby, Celia. He’s a part of me. He saved my life…”

  “And that’s the problem right there, isn’t it, Chelsea? A child is not supposed to be your lifeline. You’re supposed to be his.”

  “It must be nice to believe that your life is so perfect. You have convinced yourself of that, haven’t you? Okay, that’s fine. You keep lying to yourself and telling yourself that you’re perfect and everyone else in the world is doing it wrong. But let me tell you this, Celia…the only thing I’ve ever had in my life that was worth fighting for is that little boy…and I will fight you until the day I die for him. I was not fit to raise him, but I am now. Different doesn’t mean wrong.”

  “Different? Raising a healthy, active toddler in a one-room apartment in a shitty neighborhood is different but not wrong? That statement alone proves you need your head examined. Will is off to college this year and Sarah the next. Here, Reed will have his own room and an acre of yard to play in. You think you will ever be able to give that to him?”

  “You think it matters? Do you think that a child raised in that environment is automatically a better person than one raised on the Southside? You think that because your husband makes a ton of money and you live in a big house in a good neighborhood that it makes you a better parent somehow? Do you think your neighbors don’t have problems? Let’s check Megan’s List and see how many child molesters live near you, Celia. Or I know, we can check backgrounds on one of those online sites and see who has been arrested for drunk driving or spousal abuse. Rich people are not better people. Rich people are not immune to addictions. Hell, you have your own addictions and so does your husband. He works to avoid his, and you have used your children to be able to tolerate your miserable life for years. The only real difference between us, Celia, is that I own my shit and you…you want the world to believe you’re perfect and now you want to use my baby to do that because yours are going to leave you.”

  “You ungrateful little bitch! I will see you in court!”

  Celia hung up on her and Chelsea was in a blind rage. She had owned everything she’d ever done…what she could remember, anyways. She knew she was a screw-up, and she knew when Reed was born, she was in no shape to care for him. But everyone deserved a second chance…or maybe a third. All she knew was that no one was taking her baby from her permanently. She hadn’t fought her parents for two reasons. One: she knew she would lose, and two: they promised her that if she cleaned up
her life, she could have him back. Now Celia thought she could just step in and change all of that. She was the Bitch.

  Chelsea sighed and pulled her headphones off. It was silent in her little apartment, at least. Chopper must have given up. That was good, or at least that’s what she was trying to convince herself as she got into the shower. Of course she couldn’t block out the images of being in the same shower with him the night before. She might never be able to take another shower without thinking of him. He wasn’t only the best she’d ever had in that sense…he was…she thought he was everything she ever wanted in a man. She’d thought he was compassionate and loving. But would a compassionate, loving man share her most personal secrets almost as soon as she confessed them? Doubtful.

  Once she was showered and dressed she went online and pulled up the website for the local community college. Going back to school was something she kept promising herself she was going to do. It was time to stop making promises and start making progress. Her future with her son depended on it. Maybe when she went to court, being enrolled in school would counter the rest of her crappy life. As she scrolled through the major and minor selections, she paused over the one that said “Art.” She was an artist at heart, but was that going to look as good on paper to a judge as, say, business major or history major…something intellectual…might sound? She held her finger over the cursor for several long seconds before she scrolled on by. She spent an hour researching requirements for each major and wondering what the hell she’d do with a business degree. The very idea of sitting in an office all day looking at a computer screen or a spreadsheet sent chills down her spine.

  Frustrated and on the verge of tears again, she slammed the computer shut, grabbed her purse and keys, and left the apartment. She had hours before she had to be at work, but she couldn’t take one more second of being cooped up. The last time she’d spoken with David, the tattoo artist that she’d shared her designs with, he mentioned to her that he was down an artist. She’d never seriously considered doing tattoos before, but suddenly she was wondering if it might be nice extra money. Having two jobs when she went to court would have to look even better than one, right?

  Chelsea started walking, stopping for a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll before coming up on the street where the tattoo parlor was located. She turned toward it and was almost there when she saw a man coming out the door. He was very nicely dressed and on his phone. He was angry about something and yelling at whoever was on the other end. Chelsea had enough yelling in her life lately. She hung back until he had crossed the street, and as she entered the parlor she glanced across the street again and saw him getting into a big, black pickup with tinted windows. As the door swung closed behind her, she heard him barrel past.

  “Damn, someone is in a hurry,” David said, looking up from behind the counter where he was stocking something underneath the shelves. When he saw it was Chelsea who had walked in, he smiled brightly. “Hey, Chelsea! Your ears must have been burning. Some guy was just here asking about you.”

  “What was he asking?”

  “Well, he didn’t ask about you specifically, he wanted to see your designs. Not a very nice man,” he said with a frown.

  “Was it the guy on his phone, yelling at somebody?”

  “Yeah, he just walked out before you came in. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head, “Not that I know of. He didn’t look familiar.”

  “Good, because he was an asshole.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, first he was all pleasant and acting like he was looking to get a tat. He said he heard about some designs by an artist named Chelsea Roberts and he asked if he could see what I had. I gave him the binder and he flipped through it like he knew what he was looking for and when he found it he said, ‘Can you make me a copy of this one?’”

  “He wanted a copy of it—why?”

  “I don’t know. To take it to another parlor maybe. I told him no. They’re original designs, we don’t hand them out. I lose customers and you lose residuals that way.” Chelsea was nodding when he said, “Do you believe that the asshole took out his phone then and tried to take a photo of it? I told him that wasn’t okay either because they’re original designs. I could tell at that point he was starting to get pissed. He pulled out his wallet and laid two hundred bucks down and said, ‘I’ll buy it then.’”

  Chelsea pulled her brows together. “He wanted to pay two hundred dollars for one of my sketches?”

  “Yeah. I told him that wouldn’t be up to me, but he could leave his information and I’d pass it on to you. That was when he stormed out.”

  “Wow, weird. Which design was it, David?”

  David picked up the book that he kept her designs in. She got a glimpse of herself the day he told her he would carry them in his shop and she’d get a residual each time someone used one of her designs as their tattoo. She’d pictured herself having to quit her job at the diner so that she could devote all her time to her art. She almost laughed out loud at that now. Over the past year she only made about a hundred dollars out of the deal. She kept drawing, because it was like therapy to her, but at the end of the day, it would never feed or keep a roof over her head.

  “Here you go.” David handed her the book. It was open to one of the first drawings that she’d ever given to him. She had found it in one of the sketchpads that she’d had since she lived with Wayne. Even when she was high, her art had been soothing. She looked at the sketch and wondered why the man wanted it so badly. It wasn’t anything special. It was a picture of a skull with flower vines growing out of the eye sockets and wrapping around it. David liked it a lot because skulls were popular in their area and he always got requests for new ones. Chelsea ran her fingers over the sketch. Her memories from those days were all tinged with that drug-induced fog she’d lived in for so long, but this one she remembered drawing, because she’d drawn it for herself. It was the tattoo she had on her upper thigh. “I’ve always really liked that one,” David said, echoing her thoughts. “I liked it when I inked it on you back in the day. But changing the subject a little, every time I use that design I tell myself the next time we see each other, I’m going to ask you about the numbers, and then I forget…”

  “Numbers?”

  “Yeah,” David chuckled. “Look, right here in the center of the flowers.”

  Chelsea squinted and sure enough she could see them. Dead center in each one of the full-sized roses was a number sketched into the design. They were so small that they looked like part of the design unless you really studied them. There was a fifteen, a twenty-six, and a forty-two. Chelsea had no idea what they meant, or why she would have put them there. “I’m sorry, David…I don’t know. You know, back in the days that I drew this one, I wasn’t exactly living sober.”

  He gave her a sad smile and nodded, but then he said, “But you’re doing a hell of a job now, girl!”

  She smiled back at him. Maybe he could be a character witness for her. God knows, she was going to need one.

  21

  Chopper wasn’t about to give up on Chelsea, but there was something he had to do that day. As soon as he got back to Boston, he would knock on her door again, until she answered it or called the cops. But at the moment he was standing in line, after a three-hour drive, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans with no signs of gang affiliation showing anywhere. He left everything except for his ID in the swag wagon he’d borrowed from the ranch for the trip. He hadn’t ever been in prison, but he’d visited many times. He grew up surrounded by some of the most supportive, loving people in the world, who were also magnets for trouble. Luckily, he’d never been in the line of fire when that magnet was pulling at them, but he wasn’t kidding himself that the affiliation alone was sometimes enough. He thought about Chelsea again, and her kid, and he began to wonder if maybe she would be better off if he left them alone. Then his mind went to Zack, who was raising another man’s child, and as far as Chopper could tell, he was rock
ing it. The boy was sweet and happy and seemed well-adjusted. Cody had a little boy and Dax and Angel had adopted a daughter. As a matter of fact, the ranch was full of kids who were thriving. A lot of it was thanks to the programs that Dax and Angel had implemented. They were programs that Dax had gotten community awards and respect for, so maybe, being “affiliated” in this case wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  “ID,” the officer standing next to the metal detector said. Chopper handed it to him and while he was looking at it, a female officer said:

  “Walk through.” Chopper went through the open doorway without incident. His ID was handed back to him and he was shuffled into another room where he was told to have a seat. The room was filled with women and children, and he sat there and watched mothers playing with their babies while they waited to visit “Daddy” or another significant man in their life. Chopper loved his life on the back of his bike, in the clubhouse with his brothers, and most of all on the road. But he was thankful as hell for Dax. Back when Chopper’s dad first joined the Skulls things were a lot different. His dad had been one of the lucky ones, arrested only a few times when he was young and only for misdemeanors. But the stories he told about some of the things Dax’s dad, Doc, had the club involved in were enough to set even a seasoned biker’s hair on fire.

  An hour passed, and then another half before he finally heard “Justice Crowley.” He stood up and went to the window. The door in front of him buzzed and the woman behind the glass said, “Step through.” He went through the door and found himself in a long hall with doors all along one side and one at the end. The woman came over the intercom and said, “Go through the door at the end of the hall and take a seat behind partition number four.” Chopper did as she told him. When he pushed through the door at the end of the hall, there was a row of stools, each one behind a half-partition and facing glass with a phone attached to one side. Behind the glass was like looking at a mirror image, except for the guy with the shaved head, neck tattoos, and muscles bulging underneath his orange jumpsuit, facing the glass. The last thing in the world Chopper wanted to do was have a conversation with this punk, but it was necessary. He took a deep breath and went over and took a seat on the stool and picked up the phone. The punk on the other side smiled. Chopper tried to imagine what Chelsea saw in him before he even opened his mouth. It had to be the drugs.