Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  I thought I’d won the fuckin’ lottery.

  And I had, in that I was enjoyin’ shit I hadn’t earned, the kind of good luck that ruins a good life.

  “I don’t know, Harper. Not sure I’m down with the crowd you runnin’ with these days.”

  Her eyes flash and then narrow. She never did like being questioned. I’m laid back and give few shits about anything outside my ride and club, so it worked for us. Then.

  Now? Not so much, I guess.

  “I don’t ‘run with a crowd,’ Mark.”

  Oh, she’s pissed. She used my government name.

  “Nah, you fuck old-ass white collar criminals.” Damn. I didn’t mean to go so hostile, but it was out of my mouth before I could call it back.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She goes from zero and purrin’ to a hundred and murder-in-her-eyes in a second. That hit too close to home. She’s got to hit back harder, keep her pride. I used to love that about her. Now it makes me fuckin’ sad.

  “How many times have I defended you in court, Charge? I’ve never known you to be a hypocrite. Of course, you’ve always been happy to let everyone else do the real work, haven’t you?”

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Harper?” This is new. Usually, if we fought, it was over me failin’ to get as pissed as she was at some petty bullshit.

  “You’ve ridden Heavy’s coat tails since we were kids, and then you rode mine. And now that I don’t want to carry you anymore, you’re all judgmental? You aren’t any better than Des Wade, Charge. You’re just dumber, poorer, and you’re willing to play bitch.”

  “I ain’t a bitch, Harper.”

  My nerves are jumpin’, and everything’s tense, my shoulders, my fists. I’m not used to this feeling, and even as part of me realizes she’s getting’ to me, the rest of me is itchin’ to do…something.

  Pissed twice in one day. This is a record for me.

  “Yeah, what’s your rap sheet then?” She grabs her purse from beside the sofa and shoves it over a shoulder like a shield.

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I try to let it go, make my fists relax, open the door wider for her so she walks out.

  She stays put.

  “Your rap sheet, Mark David Denney, is a list of all the times you were Heavy’s bottom bitch. How many times have you been arrested that Heavy didn’t put you up to?”

  Ain’t gonna lie. Not many. If it wasn’t Heavy, it was Nickel or another brother draggin’ me into something.

  “You’re not a badass, you’re a fall guy. And you want to turn your nose up because I’m with a man who earns? A man who isn’t anybody’s bitch?”

  I can’t say nothin’ because nothin’ wants to come out of my mouth. My fists, yeah. But I ain’t never hit a woman, and the wall ain’t never done nothin’ to me.

  “Yeah, you don’t have anything to say for yourself, do you? You never did. I have no idea what I was doing for so long with some sad sack piece of shit who plays stooge for my brother. I guess it was the pretty face and the big dick.”

  She pretends to think a minute, cockin’ her head and pressin’ her glossy red fingernail to her lipstick coated lower lip. “Of course, big dicks aren’t that hard to come by. If you catch my drift.”

  She struts out of Heavy’s office now, swishin’ her ass, like I got told.

  I guess I did.

  cause as bad as it’s been losin’ the house and the dog, my pride and my woman, it’s worse knowin’ she’s right.

  I been playin’ bitch for years.

  Not for Heavy. There’s plenty between Heavy and me that Harper don’t know. If I’d gone down for him fifty times, that was nothin’ to what he done for me and the club. I’m not his bitch; I’m his brother, something I thought Harper understood.

  Hell, I thought there was loyalty between Harper and me. I should have known. In the club, we talk like there’s two types of females. Old ladies and sweetbutts. But in my experience, it don’t really go down like that. There are those rare females like Shirlene and Deb who are ride-and-die, and then the rest of them. The club whore who squeezed me out and bailed, Harper. Bitches makin’ time until somethin’ better comes along or shit gets inconveniently real. That or growin’ bitter when somethin’ better never does show up.

  Really, I’m the bitch for expectin’ something else. They don’t make ride-and-die no more. Or hell, maybe we don’t deserve ’em no more.

  Ain’t like my pops offered the bitch who birthed me anything but a roof, and I bet that shit leaked. And it ain’t like I brought anything to the table with Harper except a pretty face and a big dick.

  And I’m told a big dick ain’t that hard to come by.

  ✽✽✽

  My pride is still smartin’ when I roll up to Pops’ and see a kid havin’ a worse day than me. Peaches’ boy—Jimmy—is out by the willow, just wailin’ on it. Bark’s flying. Shit, you can hear the stick whistle in the air.

  I look around for Peaches, but he’s all alone. His face is beet red, and his little body is wired tight like he’s about to blow. Reminds me so much of Nickel. Right before he punches someone in the face.

  I should skip up the stairs, see to Pops. Kid probably doesn’t want anyone up in his business.

  When Nickel got like this, we’d send Heavy in cause he could take a punch better than the rest of us, given his massive fuckin’ girth. Besides, Heavy’s the only one who could talk him down. Sometimes, though, he’d be too far gone, and we’d just sit somewhere and wait for him to wear himself out.

  Thwack. Thwack. This kid ain’t slowin’ down. And he’s got no crew waitin’ on him.

  I glance over at Peaches’ place, and then back at the kid. I walk over. Not really sure why.

  Hope the boy don’t fuckin’ swing on me.

  “What that tree do to you?” I call out.

  He startles, turns on me.

  I take a step back.

  Don’t need no piece of that stick.

  The kid’s thin chest is heaving, and his button-down shirt is open like that dude from Saturday Night Fever. Someone’s ripped it.

  “You gonna tell my mama?” The kid’s voice is tight, mean. He’s holdin’ back tears by a thread. I got respect for that.

  “Not a snitch,” I say.

  “So what do you want?”

  “I dunno. Save a tree. I’m a nature lover.”

  The kid freezes a second, his body tightening up like he’s gonna blow, and then his face falls. He lowers the hand with the stick. Thank the Lord. Don’t need to lose no eye to some pissed off six-year-old.

  “I’ll leave it be,” he says, defeated.

  Shit. Didn’t mean to make it worse.

  “You want to hit something, Pops got a punchin’ bag hanging up in the garage.”

  The kid frowns deeper. “I want to hit Cal Porter.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Ran his mouth.” The kid presses his lips together and narrows his eyes, darin’ me to give him a lecture about resolvin’ things with words.

  “You shut it for him?”

  That surprises him. I ain’t no civilian, though. I know there’s times when a man has to use his fists.

  “Tried.”

  I cock my head.

  “He’s bigger than me. Faster.”

  “If I know anything about assholes, he’ll give you another shot to get it right.”

  The kid’s lip sneaks up. “Yeah,” he says. Then he just collapses to the ground, back against the tree, like a puppet that got its strings dropped. Poor kid. He’s beat. Tired.

  Hell. Me, too.

  “He won’t stop,” the kid says.

  I figure the patchy grass under the willow’s big enough for two. I lower down, and damn—been a while since I popped a squat in dirt after a long ride. I’m sittin’ now, though. Ain’t fixin’ to get back up soon.

  “What’s this kid sayin’?”

  Jimmy starts drawin’ in the dirt with the stick. �
��About my clothes. And my mama.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Give him some time. Been down this road a few times when I was a scrub. My groupie ma was a hell of an easy target. Kayla, though…she’s young and all. But she’s got the cuts the crust off vibe goin’, hard.

  “Cause I don’t have no daddy. Cal Porter says she’s a…she’s a—”

  Kid’s face is gettin’ hot thinkin’ about it. I tug the stick from his hand and start my own doodle.

  “He calls her names. That aren’t right.” Jimmy spits this out as hard as I say fuck.

  “He’s tryin’ to fu—” I correct myself right quick. “Git a rise outta you. Y’know?”

  His old-man scowl tells me he does know. This little dude has been around this block a few times.

  “Still not gonna let them say things about my mama,” he mumbles.

  “Nope,” I agree. I think back on all the run-ins I had with little shits like Cal Porter. It wasn’t ever a thing though, cause I had Heavy on one side, Nickel or Scrap or Forty on the other. I’d take a few hits, deal out a few more, then go down the river and hunt mud bugs.

  I realize the kid’s lookin’ at me like I got an answer or somethin’. Wish I did. Don’t though. Kids can be assholes. Adults too, as a matter of fact.

  “You find any mud bugs down over that way yet?” I ask, changin’ the subject. Just in time, too. I hear a screen door slam and quick steps down metal stairs.

  “Yeah. Pops showed me how. He gave me a bucket.”

  “Catch many?”

  Kayla’s roundin’ the corner of her building now. Her eyes get wide, and she crosses her hands, squishin’ together those magnificent tits. She stops a few feet from us and cocks a foot sideways like a stuck-up cheerleader. She’s fuckin’ adorable.

  I stand, brushin’ the dirt off my jeans. Jimmy hops up, too.

  “Jimmy?” Kayla’s chin is up. She’s obviously still twerked at me from earlier. Which is good. That’s what I wanted.

  I guess.

  Now I’m kind of regrettin’ my choices.

  “Yeah, Mama. Me and Charge are just talking about catching crayfish.”

  I check out my partner-in-crime. His face is still red; his shirt’s still hangin’ open. Hope Kayla don’t jump to any conclusions. Could get hella awkward.

  “I told you to change that shirt before you went out,” she says.

  Little dude looks down, guilty. “Sorry, Mama. I forgot.”

  “He fell at recess,” Kayla explains, arms tightening across her chest. Why’s she’s tellin’ me? It’s like she’s daring me to say somethin’ about the kid’s shirt. Don’t make no sense. I ain’t the type to judge. My pants got more holes than the kid’s shirt.

  “Off the monkey bars,” Jimmy adds. “That’s where I fell.”

  Hah. Hope that kid’s good at school, cause he’s shit at lyin’. Kayla don’t seem to notice, though.

  “Well, go in and change it now,” she orders. “Besides, dinner’s ready.”

  “Catch you later, little man.” I give Jimmy a chin jerk, and he gives me a stare that promises death if I open my mouth. It’s hard, but I don’t crack a smile until he leaves.

  When I do, I get a miracle.

  Kayla’s glarin’ at me, but then, it’s like she can’t help it. I grin, and her sweet lips curve up, her whole body losin’ that uptight vibe, and I love it. I know my smile has been known to drop panties, but I never got this high off it before. Her big, brown eyes go soft and warm, and my boots take me steps closer to her before my brain can have a say.

  And then the moment’s over. She must remember how I was a dick, and that chin goes back up, and she turns and flounces off like some chick in a Western.

  God damn, that ass.

  There is an upside of pissin’ off a woman like her. And it’s a hundred percent her backside as she walks away.

  CHAPTER 5

  KAYLA

  I need a fridge. There’s no way around it. So I need to go to Gracy’s Corner.

  I don’t need to be thinking about a hot biker sitting with my son, deep in conversation as if they were friends, almost.

  Nope. I need a fridge.

  I try to time it so Victoria’s at the gym when Jimmy and I drop by my dad’s, but no, like always, she makes sure I never get to speak to Vern without her around.

  When she moved in a few months after my mom passed, she had all these rules. Her and Vern make all decisions together, no locks on doors, and the passwords to all personal electronics had to be “f-a-m-i-l-y.” At the time, I thought she was worried my dad and I were so tight that she’d be the odd man out, which was hilarious since my dad and I are in no way, shape, or form tight.

  Later, Sue pointed out that more likely, Victoria had been the other woman before my mom passed, and so she was paranoid Vern would replace her with a healthier model if she ever got out of shape and sick.

  I guess I could have gotten mad about it, but I think my mom liked that my dad was never around at the end. He made her tense. He’s got a gift for stressing people out.

  I know my stomach’s all knotted up as I walk Jimmy up the front walk to the enormous wrap-around porch. When I was a kid, we always came in the back, kicked off our shoes in the mud room, and grabbed a snack from the kitchen. Victoria has a thing about always wearing shoes or slippers in the house, and she keeps the back door bolted.

  It’s weird knocking on your own front door.

  Victoria answers, as always, and immediately makes over Jimmy.

  “My baby!” She reaches down to gather him up, and he goes stiff. “You’re getting so tall! And you’re all bones.” She feels his arms like she’s checking livestock. “Are you eating?”

  She finally looks at me.

  “Is he eating?”

  “He’s eating,” I say as Jimmy wrestles out of her grasp. He reaches back for my hand, which is something he doesn’t usually do.

  He doesn’t really know what happened when he was real little, but I think somewhere deep down, he remembers. He’s always really clingy after we visit my dad and Victoria.

  “Well come on in!” Victoria says, as if she hasn’t been blocking the doorway. “Your father’s in his office. Of course.”

  She tries to keep it light, but her eyes are hard, checking me out from head to toe. She wears so much makeup, every expression is too big, fake like a clown or an actress, so I figured out a long time ago to watch her eyes. Her eyes are frustrated. She wants to find fault, but I wore her hand-me-downs in case she was here. She can’t accuse me of looking too slutty or too slovenly without dissing her own taste.

  I’ve out-smarted her. There’s nothing she can criticize.

  “Well, you look healthy!” she says.

  Oh, I know you mean fat, Victoria.

  “Did you eat before you came?” She asks Jimmy, not me, but he’s not answering. “Do you want dinner? I left the casserole in the oven on low heat just in case. And we had salad. I found the best no-calorie vinaigrette—”

  She wanders into the kitchen, assuming we’ll follow. And, of course, we do. Victoria is an amazing cook. She talks a lot about how she replaces the vegetable oil with apple sauce and uses yogurt instead of sour cream, but behind the scenes, she uses the good European butter, and she puts an extra dash and pat into everything for the pot.

  “For my baby.” She puts a pre-made plate shaped like a dinosaur in front of Jimmy along with a sippy cup of milk. Jimmy’d kick a fuss if I tried to feed him on a baby plate, but maybe it’s her cooking—or how uptight he gets in my father’s house—but Jimmy doesn’t complain.

  “On your fa-vo-rite plate!” Victoria flashes a theatrical smile, and pinches Jimmy’s chin. Her eyes fill with tears.

  “Did you miss me, baby?” She smooths his hair, sinking into the chair next to him. “I miss you to the moon and back.”

  I grab a plate and help myself. It’s a taco casserole, real cheesy, only a little spicy. Delicious.

  I bliss out on meat and carbs whil
e Victoria coos at Jimmy, and Jimmy gives her careful responses between bites. Somehow, even though I don’t push the issue, he knows he has to be on his best behavior with my parents.

  “How’s school, baby? You working really hard?”

  “It’s good. Teacher said I’m catching up.”

  She did? She didn’t tell me that.

  “Says I’m going to be reading real soon.” Jimmy sniffs, like he does every time he tells a bold-faced lie. Oh, crap. He lied for me. He knows how Victoria and Dad ride me about his reading.

  My heart breaks. It’s such a familiar feeling; I know where each of the pieces is going to land. I never wanted anything to be hard for Jimmy, but it seems like nothing’s easy. School, making friends…the kid doesn’t even have his own bedroom anymore.

  Victoria widens her eyes at me. Oh, I’m in trouble. I’m supposed to keep her apprised of Jimmy’s progress in school; that was part of the agreement when I got Jimmy back, and we moved out.

  “Well, that is great news! Why didn’t you call and tell me, Kayla? I’ve been looking into tutors, but I haven’t found anyone I like. But if Mrs. Garner says he’s doing better, well…”

  I shrug, noncommittal. If Victoria pays for a tutor, I’ll get him there. Somehow. I’m not going to out my kid as a liar, though. And who knows? Maybe Mrs. Garner did say that, trying to boost his confidence.

  I’m thinking about what to say when I hear my dad’s steps on the basement stairs. Instantly, whatever shabby little high I had going from taco casserole and the prospect of a tutor for Jimmy disappears, replaced with the usual stomach-gnawing anxiety.

  I will never forget. When they kicked me out and took Jimmy, it might have been Victoria’s idea, but my dad was the one who made it happen.

  He pours himself a cup of coffee before deigning to say hello to either Jimmy or me, and then after haphazardly tousling Jimmy’s hair, he sits at the head of the table.

  Even though it’s seven at night, he’s still wearing his suit from work. No jacket, but the tie’s still on.