Anyhow…
Enough about that. He flirted like he was God’s gift to women, and I was the young and dumb, chunky nerd from next door, who ate that up in spades.
Okay. Let’s get this straight: I’m not unfortunate looking. I’m just not the type of woman who dates muscle bound men who women drool over. I usually attract the average Joes since I’m the average girl-next-door. I’m five foot three on a good day. I wear glasses—those black rimmed ones that people imagine naughty teachers wearing. My hair is naturally light blonde, and it falls in loose waves down the middle of my back as it always has. I have bright teal eyes, a perky nose, tons of freckles, and a body with curves that just won’t stop. I’d say I have an hourglass figure, but not a skinny one by any stretch of the imagination. Before my girls were born—we’ll get into that in a minute—I was relatively happy with my body. After kids, as I’m sure you can imagine, I got bigger. Things never go back the same after stretch marks, and all that pregnancy jazz wreaks havoc over your poor body. It took me years to get back to some semblance of my normal. Now that I’m pregnant again, another challenge to fight off the baby weight will soon begin.
Hold up a second. Pause the story. I think this is my turn. Easing on my brake, the green street sign to my right reflects in the car’s headlights—Durnst Avenue. Yes. That’s it. Turning, I’m met with another long road of the same shit—as predicted. More grass. More trees. Where’s the damn city? Peeking down at my cell phone, that keeps losing signal, it says I’m fifteen miles from my destination. I exhale a relieved breath. Well, it’s about damn time.
As I was saying, Brent and I dated. If that’s what you’d call hanging out all the time and becoming best friends. Three months into this friendship, we had sex. Then we kept having sex. And as the story goes, I became pregnant. During my pregnancy, we fell in love. Or I fell in love with him. Apparently, he never felt the same. Roxie was born, and as soon as I was able to have sex again, we did—like bunnies. Which resulted in another pregnancy. That’s why my daughters are only eleven months apart, to the day…
Fast forward three months after little Scarlett was born … and you’ve got me waking up next to a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the bedside table, and a note. A fucking note!
Kat,
I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. It’s been fun. Take care of the girls. I’ll send you more money when I can. I know you’ll raise them right.
Sincerely, Me
Yep. A real coward’s way out. Sayonara, Brent. Sayonara, my dreams. Poof! He’d vanished into thin air. His house next door was vacant like he’d never been there. There wasn’t a trace of him to be seen, aside from a few measly pictures I’d secretly snuck whenever he wasn’t looking. I was alone once more with two infants, a library job, and no family. Aside from my aging grandma, who had a hard enough time taking care of herself. If it weren't for my mother taking pity on my crazy circumstances, I would have raised those little turds all by myself. Thankfully, after a sobbing phone call to my mom the day after Brent disappeared, she left her junkie boyfriend in Vegas and moved back home to help me out. A place she said she’d never return to. Yet did, for me.
A month after she came to help me put my life back together, she’d bought a small, two bedroom house a block from mine. The perfect distance to give us our own privacy, and once the girls got old enough, easy enough for them to ride their bikes over to anytime they want. Which is a lot. They adore their grandma Shelly. She spoils them rotten.
I guess that’s basically my life in a nutshell, aside from the past six months. Which includes another unplanned pregnancy—that I don’t want to discuss right now—and Bear hitting me up on Facebook after he saw my old post on a website asking for any information about my dad.
It was a Sunday afternoon four weeks ago when the friend request popped up. Bear Prez was the man’s name, and his profile picture was nothing more than a patch that said Sacred Sinners on the top rocker and Texas on the bottom. In the middle was a stitched design that had three skulls in front of a five-pointed star, that also had roses surrounding it and some wings. It was pretty badass and scary in equal measure. The strange thing was: I’d seen that patch a hundred times before. We have a local MC by the same name, using the same patch, only a few towns over. So when I messaged him to see how we knew each other before accepting or rejecting him, all he replied was…
Got some information about Mike. Saw your post and wanted to swap stories.
My heart stopped, and I responded immediately.
You knew my dad?!
Yes. You’re his only daughter. He was married to Shelly until you were six. Then they got divorced.
All of that was a matter of public record so I wasn’t convinced.
Okay. Tell me more, so I know you’re not just some creep.
Two days went by as I waited with bated breath for another reply. Stalking my Facebook messages between motherhood duties and working became a new hobby.
Finally, as I was fixing the girls chicken soup for dinner, a short response came…
Listen, I can’t talk on here. It’s not secure. My name’s Jake Knox, aka Bear. You can check it out if you want. I’m the president of the Sacred Sinners MC chapter here in Texas.
Attached to his simple message was a picture of him wearing a vest. On the breast was the name Bear and president, verifying what he said was true. His face was aged, but not terribly so. He had buzzed gray hair on top of his head and a long, dark gray beard that was braided down his front. His forearms that were tucked across his barrel chest were littered with tattoos. And his eyes I couldn’t make out because they were shielded behind a pair of cool sunglasses. One look at this man and I knew two things for certain. One: that his name suited him perfectly. He was as big as a bear. And two: I knew I could trust his word. I couldn’t tell you why I felt that way and still do to this day. It just sunk in. He was too honest and forward to pose any real threat to me.
My dad taught me from an early age to trust my gut. So that’s what I did. I trusted my gut. And now here I am, visiting Bear in Texas over Thanksgiving break, hoping to gather any sort of info about my dad’s death. It beats dwelling on the fact that another envelope of cash was delivered to my house forty-eight hours ago. They come every few months. A couple thousand dollars made up of hundred dollar bills. No note. No card. Nothing. Then again, I already know who it’s from—Brent. It’s his sad contribution to our daughters’ lives. I guess it’s better than nothing.
That’s enough about him…
Turning the final curve, the lights to the left draw my attention just as my phone's GPS declares I’m yards from my destination. Pressing on the brake, I ease forward, my gaze glued on the zoo of bikes lining the entire front and side yard of the house. If that’s what you’d call it. Not sure that I would. It appears to be an old boarding school or something. The place is set back just a ways from this desolate road. No cars are coming or going. No street lights. No signs. Just a short driveway, a massive white building with oversized windows that cast light from the indoors along the grass, and classic rock music pulsing through the muggy night air.
Taking a deep breath, I turn into the gravel drive, just now noticing the men and women frolicking like drunken children in the opposing side yard. Guess this is the place. Although, I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting. I know Bear is an MC prez, and I figured he’d want to meet where there’d be witnesses. What I didn’t expect was this. How big is his club, anyhow? I mean, I know the one locally isn’t tiny. But this looks much larger than that. There have to be at least fifty bikes here in all shapes and sizes. Not that I know much about motorcycles. I’ve never even been on one. My dad said they were too dangerous for me. And Brent—well, let’s just say he wasn’t fond of me liking anything cool like that. Anytime I’d comment about one when it would pass by, he’d cringe. Don’t worry. I got the memo loud and clear—no motorcycles for Kat. Which is fine. I’m more of a truck gal, anyhow.
Parkin
g my car midway up the drive, next to a row of chrome, I scan my surroundings like my dad always taught, before unlocking the doors and climbing out with my cell phone in hand. You can never be too careful.
A woman and man tumble naked on the grass a few feet away as I walk across the gravel to the wide porch, trying not to gape at the display.
“Can I help ya?” a massive bald man wearing a leather vest asks, blocking my way to the door. For a moment, my mind wanders, as it always does when I see bald men. For a second, their noses sharpen to match Brent’s as their eyes lighten to mimic his blue. That dimple at the crease of his lip always manifests in the precise spot, messing with my head. Then, I blink twice and all is right in the world. The shards from my shattered heart are brushed away, and the dread quickly retreats, returning me back to my kind of normal. Whatever that is.
I exhale in relief.
“Ma’am, can I help ya?” he asks again, this time tilting his head to the side, regarding me from head to toe like I’m some adorable puppy he wants to pet. Casually, as if it’s second nature, he tucks his arms across his big chest, showing off a colorful array of inked flesh.
Drawing my shoulders back, one hand on my hip and the other cupping my growing belly, I reply, “Yes. I came here to see Bear.”
A smirk quirks from the corner of his lips that looks almost evil in the dim glow that caresses the covered porch. “No offense, princess, you’re not his type.” A small chuckle proceeds, and I leer, unamused.
“I’m not here to suck his dick. I’m here to talk.”
Wow. I’m sassy tonight. Decorum isn’t my strong suit.
Baldy rears his head back as if my words have shocked him. I get that a lot. You don’t picture a woman like me to smart off as I do. Too bad. Ya get what ya get.
“You’re feisty,” he remarks.
“And you’re observant. Now, can I please see Bear?”
See, not all my manners have disappeared, I said please.
Glancing over his shoulder at the door then back to me, he pensively rubs the top of his head. “You’re not exactly party material, doll.” His eyes dip to my belly.
Son of a bitch. I don’t have time for this shit. I haven’t eaten in hours, and my blood sugar has to be getting low. Already having two kids, I learned quickly that me and starving are not a good thing. On top of that, I didn’t travel all fucking day to be held up by some attractive goon in a vest that says Marco Polo on it. What kind of name is that, anyway?
Losing patience, my last strand of sanity snaps like a guitar string. “Listen, I’m here to talk to Bear. I don’t care what y’all get down with here. You could be fucking pink-wigged clowns with whoopee cushion asses for all I give a hoot. I just know that I traveled all day to get here, and some hot guy isn’t gonna stop me from getting inside to find out what I came here for. So, you need to tell me what I gotta do to see Bear, or so help me...” Let’s just pray Mr. Marco Polo heeds my irritability, because nobody wants to fight a pregnant chick.
Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Marco Polo’s toothy grin gets ten sizes too big for taking me seriously. Great, he still thinks I’m being cute. It’s gotta be my height, ponytail, and these damn glasses. I look like a fucking librarian. Oh, right. I am one. It doesn’t help that I am in leggings, black ballet flats, and my flowy white top that doesn’t exactly scream biker babe. I get it. If he could see my mom bra or maternity panties, I’m sure he’d be in stitches. Fucking men.
“Listen, doll, there’s fuckin’ goin’ on in there, and I don’t want you to get yourself hurt. But … if you really wanna see Bear, I’ll let ya pass. Though, I gotta search ya first, to make sure you’re not carrying—”
“What?” I interject, grabbing my belly and rubbing it with both hands. “You worried about this baby bomb I’ve got hidden under my shirt? Or how about the gun I’ve got shoved up my pussy? Or maybe the ounce of coke hidden inside my fat ass? What else do you wanna know? Where the detonation device is? It’s my clit, asshole. So why don’t you get on your knees to test it out yourself with your tongue? Or is that too personal?”
Eyes bulging, Mr. Marco’s jaw all but hits the ground at the same moment I realize every ounce of bullshit I just spewed aloud. Mortified like never before, my cheeks catch fire. I cannot believe I let him uncage the crazy chick. I’ve usually got a better hold on her than this. Damn it! I try so hard to reign in my emotions. But when they rise, sometimes I say shit that I wouldn’t normally.
Pressing my lips together, patiently waiting for his shock to wear off, I throttle the urge to beg for entrance. Why didn’t I just let him frisk me? Where’s the harm in that? I’m not a china doll. I’m not gonna break.
Shaking his head, mouth finally coming to a close, Mr. Baldy clears his throat. “I’m—”
The door behind him opens, severing his words as both of us glance at the attractive, pregnant woman filling the frame—well, partially filling it. She’s skinny as hell, aside from the obvious bump that’s close to the size of mine. I’m willing to bet she’s a few months further along than me. I’ve always shown early. First kid, I was in maternity clothes from four months on. Second, from three months. This one, almost immediately. I blame it on my short stature. Then again, what the hell do I know?
“Marco, are you giving this woman crap?” The smile she offers is one of genuine mirth.
Marco rubs his head again, eyeing her then me before his chin lifts in my direction. “She wants to see Bear.”
“So?” The woman absentmindedly rubs her belly, which is framed by a vest similar to Marco Polo’s. On the chest, the name Vanessa is stitched on a pink patch.
“I have to search her,” he mumbles uncertainly under his breath.
Vanessa’s brows pinch as she scowls in his direction. “Seriously, Marco? She’s pregnant, and attending a club party. Plus, you can tell by her accent she’s not from ‘round here. Let her pass before I tell Ryker you were hassling our pregnant guest.” The woman doesn’t wait for Marco’s reply when she reaches past him and grasps my forearm, pulling me inside. She shuts the door in her wake, her long black hair flinging in obvious defiance.
Releasing my arm, she nods toward the entrance. “Sorry about him. He’s new to our chapter. He’s not used to the small-town way we run things. It’s like he’s expecting people to mow down the place in a drive by.”
“That’s not gonna happen, is it?” I ask stupidly. Of course, it’s not.
Smiling sweetly, she shakes her head, and pivots on her heel, waddling further into the house. Not knowing what to do, I trail after her, soaking in the vastness. To the left, there’s a wide room with tall ceilings, a bar, pool tables, and a cluster of leather-clad people hanging out. On the right is a living room, complete with an oversized sectional sofa and big screen TV. For a moment, I wish that’s all I can see, but it’s not. Women and men in various displays of lewdness are sprawled out on the couch and hardwood floor, seemingly oblivious to being watched, or not caring one iota that they are. I sort of admire their openness. I’ve never been that secure in myself to go topless, let alone permit a man to suck my tits for all to see. Whatever trips their triggers, I guess. I’m not one to judge.
Wading deeper into the bowels of the house, the scent of mary-jane hangs in the air. They must have a smoking room in here somewhere. I glance around, observing a line of closed doors with no markings, and a set of stairs are straight ahead.
Stopping, Vanessa waits on me, and I take a long look at the back of her vest. It reads Property of Ryker on it. Guess that explains why she’s here. Ryker must be her husband.
“He will probably be in his office.”
She points down the hall to her right as I slide up beside her, just now noticing how much taller and skinnier she is than me. Vanessa has to be at least five foot ten and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. If only we could all be that beautiful and statuesque. She looks like she should be on the cover of a maternity magazine. Even her jeans hug her perfect ass nic
ely. Not that I’m checking her ass out. I don’t swing that way.
“Thanks for your help.” I touch her arm to express my gratitude. “So what’s he like?”
“Who?”
“Bea—”
My words stop short as a man yells, “Babe!” from behind us seconds before his arms affectionately wrap around Vanessa’s growing belly.
She giggles like a girl in love, and I turn my head to see this man who’s captured her heart. A tiny fraction of jealousy bubbles to the surface for an instant. Then as my eyes cast upon the man holding her, my entire world stops dead in its tracks. My brain short circuits. Air seizes in my lungs. A wound that I’ve tended for years tears open and swallows me whole as I take a staggering step to the side. My hands shake, eyes unblinking.
It can’t be!
Oh, my fucking god!
This can’t be real!
It can’t be him!
My eyes rake those muscles I’ve intimately touched. They look the same hidden under a layer of ink. The sharpness of his jaw is just as I remember, as is the fullness of his lips. Even the masculine curve of his ear is on point.
It … It’s him.
“Brent?!” I screech at the very moment his eyes sweep to the side, noticing my stricken expression.
Another staggering step backward and I meet the hall wall, slumping against it to keep my knees from buckling. The air whooshes from my lungs, and I suck in a pained breath only to hold it once more.
What the fuck?!
“Kat?” His disbelieving tone stabs my ear drums like hundreds of bee stings. I cover them and slide to the ground, knees drawn up for protection. Closing my eyes, I pray that this nightmare dissolves into a dream of colorful unicorns, and hot alpha men who don’t abandon their families. This can’t be my real life. I have to be sleeping. This can’t be happening!
HOPE TRILOGY: Sacred Sinners- Texas Chapter Page 2
