Jack of Spades: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (Spades MC Book 1)

by Rana Raynes

  Perhaps it's only too fitting I'm reminded of that now.

  I meet Leon's gaze over Crystal's head. He looks concerned, questioning. He always feels responsible for everything. But it's not his duty to take care of this. This isn't club business.

  “I'll bring her home,” I say. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I'm too tired to explain that I'm not planning to do anything stupid. I'm just going to get her home. That's it.

  “Come on, baby,” I say as gently as I can and I lead her outside.

  I'm far from being sober myself but she's blind drunk or high as a kite or perhaps both. Even though I support her she stumbles over her own feet so much I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself in her high heels. Having to take her to the emergency room is really the last thing I would want to do right now, so I consider carrying her. But then I don't want her to get the wrong idea. It's already bad as it is.

  “I love you, Jay,” she mumbles, right on cue. “You do know that don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” I say carefully, getting out my phone to call her a cab, and she immediately uses the opportunity to snuggle up to me again.

  “Don't you love me, too?” she breathes. She tugs at my shirt and I have to seize her hands again. I don't want to hurt her any more than I already did.

  “Let's get you home, okay?” I say evasively, ignoring her pout.

  I found her little girl act pretty sexy once but the magic wore off a long time ago.

  Thankfully she's so out of it, she can't keep up the seduction attempts for long and she contents herself with leaning against me until the taxi arrives. It's only when she realizes I don't intend to go with her that she starts crying again.

  “Please Jay, don't let me alone tonight.” She sounds so desperate, my heart clenches with compassion.

  Her pleas aren't lost on the taxi driver either. He looks at me with a mixture of pity and impatience. “I don't have all night,” he says.

  I imagine weekends are the only time when you can make decent money with driving a cab in Grand Oaks and I don't want to ruin his business. Gently I try to loosen Crystal's grip on me but it's no use, she's only holding on all the harder and I don't want to use force, so I've got no choice. With a sigh I give in and get into the car with her. Maybe it's better not to leave her alone when she's in a mood like this. I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to her.

  She curls up against me in the back of the taxi, head on my shoulder, and I let her. As I said, in part she's still my responsibility. I can't leave her, not when she's like that, not completely at least. But life goes on and I wish she'd find a way to stay clean. It's scary to see her like this, and it's also sad. And I can't take care of her forever, I've got other obligations. I want another girlfriend, not just meaningless flings. If tonight has taught me anything then that I'm ready to fall in love again.

  For Crystal everything is different though: As long as she's caught in that bubble of permanent intoxication she won't be able to move on. To her it feels as if almost no time has passed since we broke up because she's so high all the time. That's why she behaves as she did at the bar, as if she is still my girlfriend and has every right to be jealous. She hasn't had a chance to catch up with things, in her world we're about to get together again after taking a break. And no matter how hard I try to explain how things are between us, it doesn't seem to stick. I'm not sure how long I'll be willing to deal with that. Eventually my patience will wear thin.

  I think of Kat again, how great it would be to have her next to me, feel her hand on my thigh instead of Crystal's, have it gliding up further. I'd fucking love that. But as things stand I have to put a stop to Crystal's behaviour, it's inappropriate. I don't want her to believe anything is going to happen between us, not tonight, not ever again. I'm planning to tuck her in, wait until she's asleep then sneak out, go home and get into my own bed, as I should have done hours ago.

  I put my hand over hers to prevent any further seduction attempts and stare out of the window, trying to think of nothing. Trying to let the night calm slip into my mind.

  “I heard about the thing at the strip club,” the taxi guy interrupts my thoughts. “One of your guys getting stabbed two weeks ago. Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he's all right,” I mutter non-committally.

  Of course he's heard about the incident. Everyone around here heard. The local TV station made sure of that, they practically jumped at the story. They never miss a chance to cast the club in a negative light and paint our alleged misdeeds in the most lurid colours. I guess it's the kind of sensationalism that sells. And it would be kind of amusing if people didn't believe this nonsense. We would love to get rid of that bad rep instead of having the fairy tale of our crimes fuelled with new half-truths. I wish we could do anything to keep that kind of story out of the media but as much as I'd like to have the necessary power, we're not the Mafia, our influence is limited, and we don't want to make everything worse by trying to shut someone up with threats. That could blow up right into our faces.

  The taxi driver is still watching me in the rear view mirror. “I was only wondering how bad it was since he didn't... he didn't show up at work this week,” he says, somewhat cautiously.

  The way he says it makes me listen up. Something about this is strange. Why should some random taxi guy care about Rumbles? It makes no sense unless...

  “You know him?” I ask, trying to catch his eye in the review mirror but he avoids my gaze.

  “Met him at a party once,” he says evasively. His eyes flick towards the mirror, then – when he realizes, I'm watching him – back to the street in front of him.

  “Only once, huh?” I say. It's not as if I don't know what Rumbles is up to in his free time. But judging by the look of the poor taxi guy he thinks I'm prejudiced. That's what people don't get about us; we don't care about the silly conventions of society. Not like they think we do at least. As much as I enjoy pushing his buttons a little I don't want to give the driver a wrong impression.

  “He's back on his feet,” I say. “It just seemed like a good idea to let him have a bit of a break. I could tell him you asked about him if you like?”

  The driver nods. He does looks somewhat relieved. “You can tell him Josh says hi.”

  “You want me to give him your number too?”

  He pauses for a moment, bites his lip, then nods again. Looks like we're finally on the same page. It's good to have an understanding. And it would be great for Rumbles to get some love. He really could use it right now.

  I tip the taxi driver generously when we finally reach Crystal's address and he scribbles a little note for Rumbles. He returns my smile when he hands it over, shy, perhaps a little incredulous about how cool I am with this. For a guy in a kutte, covered in tats, being chill about a buddy being gay is probably still not common. But I'm not old fashioned. Not in that regard at least. And he really seems like a nice guy.

  Then he starts his car and takes off and I'm alone with Crystal again. I managed to get her out of the car with a little persuasion but after that she fell back into a state of drowsiness and even the crisp night air doesn't seem to wake her up. Perhaps she is fast asleep or she only pretends to be so I have carry her inside. I'm too tired to think about it. It doesn't matter anyway at this point. She won't be able to drag me into her bed, regardless which scheme she's come up with. Because all my thoughts are with another woman tonight. Or would be if I wasn't worried.

  Crystal is limp like a doll in my arms, and I realize I don't even know what kind of drugs she's taking these days. What if she's addicted to something dangerous? Compared to synthetic opioids like fentanyl good old heroin seems downright harmless. The numbers of fentanyl overdoses are soaring, partly because heroin is more and more often cut with this crap. Perhaps I have to keep an eye on what's going on with her. Being an addict and incapable of having a functional relationship or generally getting your life in order is one thing, but walking a tight rope without a safety net is quite
another.

  And just like that I'm getting dragged back into my old boyfriend role.

  So in the end I do what's right: I carry her to her bedroom, tuck her in and pull up an arm chair next to her bed and slump on it. To be there, just in case.

  Chapter 5

  Kat

  I wake the next day to the sun shining directly into my face. It's too bright at first. I blink, tempted to pull the blanket over my head and go back to sleep. It would be so nice to be able hide from reality just a little bit longer, seeking refuge in the fantasy of a warm, strong body pressed against mine. My skin is still buzzing from his touch, the sensation of his stubble so vivid on my skin. I run my hand over the spot as I imagine him to kiss me there, in the sensitive dip between neck and shoulder, the heat of his breath. I bury my hands in his hair which is soft and silky and I lose myself in the caress, in his undivided attention.

  I wasn't aware I missed physical contact so much. The occasional hug or kiss or touch, that's not much a surprise, but it feels as if Jay has unlocked something in me that I had almost forgotten about: sexual desire.

  To want. To be wanted. It's something you can nearly live without. Something you can nearly turn off. It's like going on a diet – little fun but you won't die from it. It changes you though, imperceptible.

  The passion had been long dead between Mike and me, months, perhaps years before we broke up our sex life had been fading. We still had sex, rarely but regularly, on weekends or vacations and it was… not bad. Nice even. But it had also become routine. A well rehearsed order of steps and touches. There was no spark between us anymore, none of the craving I feel now when I'm thinking about Jay.

  In my mind the last evening begins replaying, I can smell his leather jacket, his aftershave, I can feel him against me. I can feel his desire.

  It's almost perfect. Almost – until I remember what else happened and the feeling of being happy and safe and loved gets shattered by a crushing sense of disappointment. He's in a relationship. The connection I felt with him was only an illusion. There's no budding romance between us. It was a mistake, a moment of weakness, and the sooner I'll get to grips with that the better.

  I try to push the treacherous dream aside and untangle myself from the sheets.

  I'm annoyed with myself for falling back into old patterns. Didn't I have too much of this lately? I should know better than to allow myself this longing for someone who cares for me without reservations and ulterior motives. Hasn't life already taught me how unrealistic it is? And haven't I told myself countless times that I don't want to be dependent on the whims of a man ever again?

  I pick up my diary from the night stand, open a fresh page and write it down, just for good measure: Don't get dependent on a man again.

  A message to myself, past, present and future.

  Half of my entries are resolutions like that. Not a day goes by that I don't tell myself I have to believe in myself, that I can do it, that I can reach my goals and make my dreams come true. The positive thinking has to pay off eventually. One of the evergreens among my own pieces of advice is “Overthinking things is useless, better get your pretty ass moving.” I should probably get it tattooed somewhere because to interrupt your moping with some activity is always a good idea. Plus, it never hurts to be reminded that my butt is kind of nice.

  I put down the diary to follow my own advice and get out of bed.

  The wooden floor boards are cool under my naked feet when I walk over to the open window. The fresh air is working miracles, it only takes a minute until I'm feeling better. As I'm gazing up into the clear autumn sky my worries melt away like cirrostratus clouds.

  Down in the garden my grandaunt Mabel has put up her easel and now she's zestfully dabbing her brush onto the canvas. I can't see what it is she's painting today but probably the colourful trees and bushes. The leaves have started to turn all kinds of colours recently, golden and orange and red. There's still a lot of green in between, it's not that late in the year yet. With a little luck we might get some more warm days. But you can already see how the light is changing from summer brightness to the yellowish, slightly surreal hue of autumn.

  There is something so comforting and idyllic about the sight of my aunt in the garden with her painting equipment, the brushes and crayons and coffee mugs on the table. I can see what a wonderful memory it will make one day, a perfect, cereal commercial impression of home. In moments like these I'm getting aware of how lucky I am, despite all the heartache and the worries about my future. I found a new home here, in this idyllic little house with my grandaunt, a refuge from my old life when had unexpectedly come toppling down on me like a house of cards.

  The first thing I did after I had found out Mike was cheating on me was starting to pack. I didn't have a clue where I wanted to go, I was just sure I couldn't stay. I desperately needed a change of scenery. I knew I had to leave my life, the city, everything that I had shared with Mike behind. When I told my grandma about the breakup she got me in touch with the sister of her late husband, Mabel. Mabel was looking for someone to help her take care of the house, do some shopping for her, that kind of stuff. Not a nurse but a room mate who'd take on some of the responsibilities of a shared household. It was the perfect offer, really.

  That's how I ended up in Grand Oaks. And I couldn't have wished for a better place to clear my head and figure out what I want to do with my life.

  Now I'm living in a room under the roof which looks like it's been preserved in a time capsule for the last forty to fifty year. It's rather quaint with its white wooden panelling and the old-fashioned flower wallpaper, the antique vanity table and the wrought iron bed frame. Quite romantic. And such a fun contrast to the biker chick act I pull off at work.

  It's the room of a 20th century teenage girl who likes white lace and floral dresses, sweet romance novels and heavy perfume. I'm not her but sometimes I pretend to be. It's nice not to be yourself for a while. That's when I allow my thoughts to be more frilly than they usually are. That's when I dream of love. Not the thing I had with Mike in the end, when the hormone-rush and the big dreams and the shared interests had faded into stale cohabitation and codependency. No, I think of fairy tale love, of sparks and butterflies, sunsets and stargazing, weak knees and sweaty palms.

  Today its flavour is different though – it tastes of liquor and smoke, leather jackets and danger, and again I remember the hunger I felt the night before, this craving in the pit of my stomach as if I wanted to devour him.

  Jay.

  Jay, the gorgeous guy with the gorgeous girlfriend. The girlfriend he cheated on with me, I remind myself. Which is the reason I shouldn't think of him anymore. Not like that anyway, not like there was any hope for us being together. I'm being silly again.

  I glance at my latest diary entry as I walk back to the bed to pick up my favourite sweater. All the advice I'm giving myself, and I'm still not able to stick to it for more longer than it takes me to write it down.

  With a sigh I pull on the sweater and make my way down the narrow staircase and into the kitchen. There's still some coffee in the pot and I get a mug from the shelf to pour myself a cup of nice hot black coffee. When I add a generous splash of milk I notice the carton is almost empty. Looks like a groceries run is in order.

  That's when I remember that my car is still in the parking lot of the Ace and I have to get it before I can go shopping.

  Perhaps I've just got very accomplished at tormenting myself but I don't need any more than the mental image of my car and the bar for everything else to come bubbling up. I have to force myself not to think of Jay again, of all these little exciting things about him that make my pulse race: how soft his hair was, how gentle his lips were on mine, how my insides tingled with desire.

  I won't think about this, I tell myself. Not now. And I will worry about getting the car after I had my coffee.

  I step out onto the terrace and then into the wet cool grass. It's really not the time of the year to walk arou
nd without shoes but well, I'm stubborn, holding on to summer as long as I can.

  Mabel is still dabbing her brush at the picture. She's indeed painting the trees and bushes, just as I expected, explosions of colour on the canvas, red and orange and yellow. But on the table next to her are also some depictions of autumn flowers, dahlias, chrysanthemums, asters. She must have been at this for hours. And the results are really impressive.

  I pick up one of the painted flowers to have a closer look.

  “They're beautiful,” I say, almost surprised.

  “Thank you, dear.” Mabel glances up from her work and beams at me. She looks so happy, I can't help myself I have to hug her. She is like a grandmother I found rather late in life and I feel so lucky about that.

  She hugs me back but when I take a step back again to return my attention to the paintings she looks at me with an unspoken question on her face. Of course she has noticed at once something is wrong.

  “What's up, Kat?”

  I try to shrug it off. “Nothing. I just wanted to hug you that's all.”

  But Aunt Mabel sees right through me. It's obvious in the way she raises her eyebrow. She sets her brush aside and settles down in one of her garden chairs.

  “Tell me,” she demands.

  I slump on another one of the chairs and take a sip of my coffee.

  “There was this guy at the bar yesterday,” I begin and immediately realize it may not be the best idea to tell her.

  She looks concerned, perhaps even alarmed. “He did not molest you, did he?”

  She's in general not too happy about my job to say the least. As far as I can tell she is a rather open minded and friendly person, someone who usually isn't prejudiced against people, but her opinion of my work place is pretty low. For some reason she's convinced all bikers are criminals and the bar is a den of vice, frequented by all kinds of shady and possibly dangerous characters. And I should be careful not to feed that fear. I don't want her to worry about me all the time, so I must stop that sexual assault-train of thought right there, before it gets moving.