Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  I used to think he was too busy to change when he got home, but then I figured out he doesn’t want to relax. That’s why even though this house is huge: five bedrooms, media room, pool, three car garage, home office and a home gym…it’s totally uncomfortable. The seating is designer with sleek lines and stiff backs, and the art is modern and cold.

  He couldn’t wait to turn my mom’s sewing room, stuffed to the gills with leaning towers of dress patterns and heaps of fabric, into the home gym. If he could have traded me in for an uptight honor roll student-athlete at the same time, he would have.

  “So you want my fridge,” he begins. It’s not a question.

  Yeah, this is going to suck.

  I nod. “Just until I can save up for a new one.”

  “Have you called your landlord? As a renter, it’s your landlord’s responsibility to repair or replace appliances.”

  I take a deep breath. “I can’t get ahold of him.”

  My dad shakes his head. “Ridiculous.” He pulls out his cell phone. “What’s the number? I’ll call now. Petty’s Landing is a GP Property Management Company. Doug Jenner’s over there as I recall.”

  Doug Jenner must be a friend from the club. Basically, everyone in Petty’s Mill who’s anyone is a friend of Dad’s from the club.

  “We’re not at Petty’s Landing anymore.”

  It’s like someone scratched a record. My dad’s jaw sets, and Victoria’s black-winged eyelashes fly up. They exchange a look, and Victoria hustles Jimmy out of the room.

  “Come on, baby. Let’s let Mommy and Pop Pop talk. I’ll show you the new workbench Daddy—I mean Pop Pop—got for your playhouse. Want to see?”

  Jimmy’s eyes light up, and he races for the back door. He loves the playhouse Victoria had built for him; he’s more at ease there than anywhere in this house where he spent his first four years.

  I try to check all the ugly feelings swirling in my chest and put Jimmy at the center of my thoughts. Nothing matters more than doing the best for him. Certainly not my pride.

  I squeeze my hands together under the table. I’m about to be lectured like a twelve-year-old.

  “Explain yourself, Kayla.”

  Same thing he said after I passed out during mod four American History, first quarter of ninth grade, and ended up at Patonquin Medical Center with a positive pregnancy test and an ultrasound saying I had a five-month-old bun in the oven.

  Not “I love you.”

  Not “It’ll be okay.”

  But “Explain yourself.”

  It used to hurt. I can’t afford hurt feelings anymore.

  “I couldn’t keep up with the rent at Petty’s Landing,” I explain, keeping my voice calm and even. “I moved to a smaller place, further away from downtown. It’s real nice. It’s by the river.”

  “There’s nothing but trailer trash down by the river.”

  “Garret Rodgers lives by the river.” I throw out his best golf buddy’s name like it’ll change his opinion. I know it’s futile; my entire life, he’s never changed his mind.

  “The Rodgers live on the bluffs. Is your new apartment on the bluffs?”

  He knows it’s not.

  “We’re down past the Rutter’s on Coventry Road. It’s districted for the same elementary as Petty’s Landing, so Jimmy didn’t have to switch schools.”

  “Well.” My father leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. Now we’re going to get down to it. “Good to see you’re at least thinking a little bit about Jimmy’s well-being.”

  My entire body stiffens. This is dangerous ground. Whenever he starts talking about Jimmy’s well-being or his health or his development, I know what he means. He means tread carefully or else. He means I better shape up, act right, watch myself. Or he’ll have no choice but to call his good, personal friend Denise Edgerton at the Department of Child Services. To counsel me. Help me make good choices.

  The taco casserole turns to a rock in my stomach.

  “What kind of living situation doesn’t have a service on-call for emergencies? This is basic sanitation, Kayla. I mean, don’t you think Jimmy deserves basic sanitation?”

  The question hits me right in the gut. Jimmy does deserve a working fridge. And a swing set with a swing and a tutor and a freakin’ father. There was a time I’d let it pile up in my head, all the things Jimmy deserves that I can’t give him, overwhelming me until I couldn’t do anything but lie in bed and cry. But not anymore.

  I channel Sue’s voice: Jimmy deserves a mom who loves him more than life.

  I force my hands apart and out of my lap, resting them on the table.

  I’m not a confused and terrified fifteen-year-old with a guilty conscience anymore. I’m a mom.

  “Look. Dad. I think it’s just a mix-up. The new landlord is probably on vacation, and he probably told me, but in all the chaos of moving…I just need to borrow the fridge for a little while until I can get it straightened out.”

  He takes a long sip from his coffee and then sits it precisely at three o’clock in front of him.

  “I have to be honest, Kayla. This all seems fishy to me. If you were struggling with the rent, why didn’t you talk to me? Did you lose the job at General Goods?”

  He’s staring at me speculatively.

  “No. I’m still working first shift. Tuesday through Saturday.”

  “Then where’s the money going?” He asks like he thinks the answer is meth and not the grocery store.

  I snort on the inside. My dad’s the CFO of Gracy Industries, the import business the Gracy family started when they sold the mill. He should know how math works.

  “Rent. Groceries. Daycare. Gas. Co-pays—”

  “I didn’t ask for a smart response.”

  He didn’t get one either. Life costs money. It’s the second big life lesson I ever learned. The first was the strong prey on the weak, and there is virtually nothing anyone can do about it.

  I take another deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just need to borrow the fridge. Just for a little while.”

  He takes a long time, thinking. He doesn’t fool me. Not anymore. He’s a negotiator by profession. He already knows what he wants from me. He’s waiting so I’m more likely to crack.

  “You know, Kayla, Victoria really misses having Jimmy around the house.”

  I nod. I don’t like where this is going.

  “She has graciously offered to watch Jimmy overnight on Fridays and Saturdays. You can pick up overtime, and Jimmy can have weekends here. We have the backyard, the playhouse. And he’ll get the benefit of having a man around. A boy needs a male role model. Plus you won’t need to pay for childcare. Weekend rates have got to be steep.”

  Oh, they are. Mrs. Jenner charges her normal hourly rate plus half for Saturdays and double for Sundays.

  And if things were different…Jimmy deserves loving grandparents and room to run and play. He deserves a bedroom with his name on the wall like he has here, and a long driveway where he can safely ride his bike in circles for hours.

  But he also deserves me. I’m not going to lose sight of that again. And we’ve been down this road before. Best interest of the child. Fitness. Consistency. Primary caregiver. Temporary custody. Supervised visitation.

  “I don’t feel comfortable with that.” I keep my face calm. Non-confrontational. That was one of my mistakes before. Not being able to control my emotions. I mean, what fifteen-year-old can? But you learn quick when you’re motivated.

  My dad glares down the table at me, his expression all parental disappointment. He’s not necessarily disappointed I’ve turned him down; his face says he’s fundamentally disappointed in me, what I am, what little I’ve managed to make of myself. His next words don’t surprise me in the least.

  “It shouldn’t come as a shock that you’d put your needs above Jimmy’s. Again.”

  I press my sweating palms into the table. The jumble in my head—the old guilt and shame and fear and betrayal and panic—all of it threatens to
spill out of my mouth, onto the long table between us, ruining the tentative peace I’ve built by pretending they didn’t steal my baby and send me away like some family disgrace.

  I won’t let it though. I worked too damn hard for all of this. For Jimmy.

  “Dad, I just need the fridge. For a couple weeks.”

  “How is it that you think you’re fit to raise a child, and at the same time, you ask Victoria and I to bail you out time and time again?”

  Does he think it’s my choice? More than anything, I want to cut them off, take Jimmy away from them like they took him from me. But that’s spite. And it’s not in Jimmy’s best interest. And maybe I am a little afraid that one day I’ll fail at this whole being a mother thing, and I don’t want to leave Jimmy alone in the world.

  I can’t keep looking at my dad and keep the calm I’ve got hanging on by a thread. I let my gaze wander around the dining room, the strategically arranged black and white photos of great grandparents interspersed with professional shots of my dad’s wedding to Victoria and Jimmy when he was a baby. I’m in a few group shots of my father’s family, taken when I was little, but my mom’s nowhere to be seen.

  I guess that’s not so strange. No one wants a picture of your husband’s first wife hanging up in the dining room. But for at least one of the group shots—a reunion at Patonquin State Park—I remember my mom was there. Victoria must have cropped her out of the photo before she framed it.

  If I hadn’t gotten Jimmy back, would she have cropped me out too?

  My throat’s tightening. I have to get out of here.

  “Can I have the fridge, Dad?”

  He sighs. He’s about to double down; I know the expression. He’s going to tell me that he’s concerned, that maybe I need to check in with Dr. Hewitt, make sure I’m well, but before he can, the backdoor slams and Jimmy comes trotting into the dining room, an out-of-breath Victoria on his heels.

  “Hey, bud.” I make myself smile, as real as I can make it. “How’s the workbench?”

  He slides a glance at my dad, and then he wriggles up under my arm until he’s half on my lap. “It’s cool.”

  “Did you say thank you to Victoria?”

  “Thank you, Victoria.” He’s eyeing me. He knows something’s not right. “Is Pop Pop letting us borrow the fridge?”

  And I swear. I did not prompt him to ask. But Lord, I could kiss the boy.

  Victoria and my dad exchange a look. Yeah, they’re not happy. Jimmy just ruined their leverage.

  “Sure am, son,” my dad says, rising. “Back the Corolla up to the garage.”

  I do as he says, and then I help him maneuver the fridge into the trunk. It takes two of us to get it in, and I’m a little worried about how I’m going to get it up the metal stairs to the crane’s nest, as Jimmy and I dubbed our place by the river.

  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  When we’re all ready to go, my dad walks up to the driver’s side and gestures for me to roll the window down.

  Whatever he wants, I’m not going to like it. At least Jimmy is already drowsing in his car seat. It’s a late night for him. He’s going to be a grumpster in the morning.

  “Are you going to be able to get that into your new place by yourself?”

  Uh, no. An image of Charge flashes in my mind, his muscles bunching as he hauls the fridge up the stairs, sweat beading on his—

  Nope.

  “N— Yes. I can manage.”

  He scores me with his hard eyes. Victoria hovers over his shoulder, her face all fake concern, her eyes harder and colder than his.

  “Can you, though, Kayla? You agreed. When we allowed you to—when you moved out with Jimmy, you agreed to certain conditions.”

  My stomach is clenching tighter and tighter, tears welling up behind my eyes. I’m too afraid to let them out, but my nose is tickling like when a cry is unavoidable. I’m starting to panic because how am I going to get out of Gracy’s Corner before I need to pull over and bawl? I can’t drive in hysterics; it’s not safe. But if I pull over somewhere nearby, some busybody will definitely call my dad or Victoria and let them know their prodigal daughter is having a nervous breakdown on the side of the road.

  “Yes, Dad.” I keep it short so they can’t hear my voice break.

  “You agreed to maintain a certain level of agreed upon support, and that certainly includes working refrigeration.”

  I wonder if any other parent in the world talks to his daughter like a lawyer. Conditions. Agreed upon. Refrigeration.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that if you fail to meet those conditions, Victoria and I will have no choice but to—” He pauses for a minute and checks the back seat. Jimmy is conked out. “Pursue all avenues available to us in the best interest of our grandchild.”

  I learned another lesson pretty early on in life. If you’re afraid enough, there’s no room for anger.

  So my white knuckles gripping the steering wheel? The blood pounding through me, whooshing in my ears? That’s not fury. That’s pure, unadulterated terror.

  “Yes, Dad,” I whisper as I roll up the window and ease the car into drive.

  I make it five miles away from Gracy’s Corner before I have to pull over and cry silently into my fist while Jimmy snores softly behind me.

  I can’t keep doing this. I can’t run myself ragged at work and at home, and then rake myself over the coals every other week when I see Dad and Victoria. I can’t keep being so afraid all the time. I can’t keep living with this dread hanging over me that everything is going to fall apart, and I’m going to lose everything.

  But I don’t have a choice.

  I have a Jimmy.

  And Jimmy is everything.

  CHAPTER 6

  CHARGE

  “You gonna help our girl or you gonna keep sitting here mopin’ with your head up your ass?”

  Pops and I are out on the pier, night fishin’ by the full moon. Well, Pops’ got a line in, and I’m coolin’ my feet in the Luckahannock. I was on ’em for hours after the run-in with Harper. In the end, I passed on sweetbutt. Instead, I went back to the site and walked the fence, makin’ sure the Rebel Raiders ain’t breeched the perimeter elsewhere.

  After, I didn’t want to go back to the clubhouse. Club pussy climbs on me like I’m a damn swing set, and I need a break, so I headed here. Shirlene’d been around all day, makin’ a roast, so I ate well before Pops and I headed out to drop lines.

  The river in spring is freezin’ fuckin’ cold, but it’s a good cold. Bracing.

  We been out here a few hours, passin’ a flask, not catchin’ anything, but not bothered. Pops is talkin’ like he does, goin’ from one subject to another like he’s high as shit, but really, he’s just an old head who never was much for makin’ logical sense.

  So at first I don’t know what he’s talkin’ about when he mentions the girl. Then I see he’s lookin’ back at the neighbor’s.

  Kayla has come home, and she just half-carried, half-dragged her sleep-walkin’ boy upstairs. Now’s she’s wrestling somethin’ out of her trunk.

  It’s hard to make out in the moonlight. Looks bulky.

  “Go give her a hand. I’m tired of lookin’ at your miserable ass.”

  “You ain’t raised no Boy Scout, Pops.”

  “Well, she ain’t gonna jump on your dick if you all the way over here, boy.”

  I ain’t lettin’ that image in my head. Not with Pops’ pumpkin grin leering at me in the dark.

  “Not interested in fuckin’ someone’s mom, Pops.”

  “I fucked your mom. Wasn’t too bad.” He’s cacklin’.

  To be honest, I’ve seen pictures of her. My mom. She looked like a model, like some eighties rocker-chick Marilyn Monroe. I have no fuckin’ clue how Pops got a piece of that. I can only assume there was alcohol involved.

  There’s a thump and a crack from over by Kayla’s Corolla and a soft little cry. Instantly, my cock�
��s hard.

  “Sounds like a damsel’s in distress.” Pops chuckles.

  Shit.

  Don’t I know it. She’s the definition of trouble waiting to happen. She’s ripe, all alone, not enough sense to leave that shit for morning when it’s light out.

  That irritation creeps up on me again. Whoever’s been careless with her has made her careless with herself.

  But I ain’t that guy. There’s a reason I’m not a club enforcer. I don’t get off on serve and protect.

  Besides, females come to me.

  I don’t do this. I don’t stalk over to them, makin’ sure to clear my throat as I come up so they don’t startle and clutch their fuckin’ pearls.

  Oh, fuck. Now I got the image in my mind of Kayla’s open face, flushed and drowsy from fucking, with my cum sprayed over her peachy skin and dripping down her throat onto the top of her bare tits. My kind of pearl necklace.

  When I speak, it comes out harsher than I mean it to. “Need help?”

  She stands over the mini fridge she’s wrangled out from her trunk. Her chest’s heavin’, and there’s a little line of sweat above her lip. I don’t know why that’s the hottest shit I’ve ever seen, but it is.

  She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing an old lady top, the knit kind with a collar and three buttons, all buttoned up.

  Of course I check out lower, and damn if she ain’t wearin’ slacks. With an elastic waistband.

  She looks like she’s wearing her mother’s clothes.

  I didn’t know MILF was my thing, but I want to work my hand down past that elastic waistband and cup her, let her juices slick my palm.

  Fuck.

  She ain’t thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’. She’s clearly still cold on me. As well she should be.

  She huffs to get a wisp of hair out of her eye and tries to make her face mean. She fails fuckin’ miserably. For one, you can read every thought she has. She’s a little freaked out, and a lot irritated. And she must have had a rough night. Her cheeks are tear-streaked, and her eyes are puffy.

  And it bothers me. Her being out here in the dark, upset, temptin’ fate being alone at night in this part of town. Ain’t right.