If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel

by Kimber S. Dawn

  However, because I’m a gentleman—don’t laugh. Don’t think I can’t hear you snicker. I do the gentlemanly thing, and go by there once a week to pull the trash to the front, mow the grass if it needs it—or any other odd end handyman job that may need to be done. And I don’t do it for her out of anything other than history. I did it for her old man when he lived at the house as a prospect, and when he moved into the compound, I never stopped.

  This could possibly be adding fuel to whatever burning eternal flame Roxy has for me, and as much as I understand that, what you don’t understand is—this shit’s been burning for a looong time. And there’re some fires that are just best left alone. Let ‘em burn that shit out. It’s all ashes to ashes and dust to dust in the end.

  When I pull my bike up the drive, I don’t see anyone at first because her house is one of them you have to damn near completely circle before you hit the garage in the back. So I’m a little caught off guard when I pull in and see Ben’s bike saddled up next to Rox’s Jeep.

  “Huh,” I mutter, pulling the helmet off my head before tugging the black bandana down to where it's tied around the back of my neck. I glance down and see the toe of my boot crushing some tulips. I frown before glancing around the yard.

  The whole bitch has been landscaped! Like fresh mulch and fucking annuals, or whatever. Flowers. My eyes skip back to Ben’s blue bike and narrow before I smirk.

  Didn’t even know the sly bastard was gonna be in town… Well, look at him. And Rox?

  I chuckle, taking the front steps two at a time before rapping my knuckles with ‘FUCK’ tattooed across them against the front door. When my fists are side by side, my knuckles spell out FUCK YEAH. Don’t ask. Dreads has an ink gun, and sometimes we have too much damn idle time. This could help me, I think. As much as it could possibly hurt me.

  How, you may ask. Well, I’ll tell you.

  See, unlike my cousin, who has an attention span of a damn goldfish—when the shit went down with Pops the night of the rally, Ben actually forgot. Like, forgot forgot about whatever happened with Ilsa’s kid daughter. He’s been around that chick twice in the last six months, so I know he ain’t forgot about her. Luckily, just the part about me possibly fucking her. Which, between you and me, I’ve made my peace with. Made my peace with it that morning, actually. And once I make my peace with something, it’s done. Never happened.

  I go to mass. I go to confession. Every Sunday—as did my mother. And that won’t change. And as far as I’m concerned, if it’s good with God then it’s well with my soul and it never happened—I’ve been forgiven by the blood of Jesus Christ.

  A-motherfuckin’-men.

  “Ay!” I knock again when I hear a scuffle, or what sounds like one...hint, hint. “Ben, I’m not mad, brother. Don’t try to go out of the window and fucking kill yourself either, man. Rox, tell him! Jesus Christ, woman. We are not together! Ben! Ben!” I bang on the door harder when an idea strikes, and then decide, fuck it. I’ve seen what Roxy has, and I’m sure whatever Ben has, mine looks close enough (well, I mean, I’m sure it’s not ten and a half. Okay, ten.) “Ask me if she’s shaved or bare.” I slap my hand over my eyes as I hold my other hand out and walk blindly into Roxy’s house. “Rox, cover your shit up, girl. Ask, Ben. Bare or shaved!”

  “Jacques, what? What are you fucking doing here?” I uncover my eyes, glance at where Rox is, roll them at her for acting so goddamn offended, and then glance to where Ben is—frozen, mid-stride towards the window. During all of this, I have noted Rox has on pants, so there’s no way I could know he’s here. He knows I haven’t seen. When Ben’s eyes meet mine, I make my case. “Couldn’t fucking tell you.” I hold my hands up. “Haven’t seen it in three years.”

  When he nods, Roxy opens her dumbass mouth. “It’s bare. I could’ve shaved this morning.”

  “Right, and how does that make any sense? What the hell does it matter? The bottom line is this—Ben, please, feel free to fuck Roxy. I’m not. Roxy, for the love of God, let Ben fuck me out of you, okay? It’s really best for everyone in the long run, sweetie. And hey, you’ll always have my virginity.” I smile at her before she cuts her eyes at mine.

  “That wasn’t me.”

  Oops.

  “Wasn’t? Really? Oh shit, I thought all this time.” I laugh then head to the fridge for a Bud Light before pulling one out. “You cool, man?” I look over my shoulder and I’m relieved the bastard’s not acting as spooked. He nods. “Cool. How long you in town for?” I pull a swig from my Bud.

  “This weekend. I was actually about to head to the club. What’s up here?” He looks between Rox and me.

  And again, I slightly raise my hands. “Nothing more than tradition, man. Sgt. At Arms’ yard still needs mowed. Even if he don’t live there.” I nod and smile at Rox. “Plus it helps this one out.”

  Raising both hands, I grab the top of the door frame with one, and lean my weight on it, before stretching forward, trying to pull out some of the knots forming in my shoulders and back. “Like what y’all done to the yard, Rox. It’s nice.”

  “Thanks. Ben did it. Wasn’t that nice?”

  Yeah. Kinda what I just fucking said.

  After I bullshit with Ben for a little while longer, I say my goodbyes to him and the newly eager to be rid of me Rox. And I gotta say, it wasn’t as bad as I always thought it’d be. Just one less yard I have to mow. Pun...hahaha. You decide if the pun was intended.

  ***

  It was just another night. I’d just finished the books and was headed to the steeple to put them in the safe before Pops locked up the petty cash when about ten bikes pulled up in the boneyard.

  No colors. All black bikes, all black leather. Not a single cut or patch to be seen.

  However, I saw none of this. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see a single goddamn thing. I did hear something, though. I heard a voice I’d never heard before call my name. “Jacques Cain?”

  And to tell you the truth, I can’t even recall looking up. I was walking across the yard, books hooked under my left arm, making my way to Pops’ office.

  Then...nothing. Everything. Fuck if I know what to call it. But it happened.

  Three shots rang out.

  Hitting me. Twice in the chest, and once in the gut.

  Then nite-nite, mothafucker. My shit went dark.

  Present Day:

  I’d been stuck in the same dead end job at Charming Charlie’s Exotic Club as a waitress for the last seven years when the shitty but happy life Grams and I built for ourselves over the last few years crumbled apart. And that was two years ago.

  It’s not easy, in case you were wondering. It’s not easy restarting your life over and over. And to be completely honest with you, I haven’t decided to start again. Not yet.

  Don’t judge over it lasting me two damn years, either. How many times have you been in attendance to this feeling in your life? Hmm? It can’t be natural for a person to start over as many times as I have in one lifetime. It can’t. So hold off on any hypocriticalness you may have. This story isn’t over—it’s nowhere fucking near it, actually.

  I throw my car keys on the table in the foyer after kicking my Chucks off next to the front door, and sigh when the motorcycles that’ve been pulling into town since Thursday pass. Slowly I breathe in before letting the breath back out and only then am I able to relax enough to allow the feeling of home to finally begin to settle in.

  Leaving the lights off in the house, I make my way through the main room and back down the hallway. After passing Grams’ closed bedroom door on the left, I squeeze my eyes closed then take the right down the hall and flip on my bedroom lights before tossing my bag on my bed. Light floods the room with nothing more than the soft twenty-five watts I keep plugged into most of my fixtures. Grams and I decided when we moved in that we didn’t need much in the way of light as the entire backside of our little cottage on the beach is made of nothing but windows. A smile breaks out across my face for the first time in days as
I open the back double doors overlooking our little...I mean my, little stretch of beach. A frown replaces my smile as I realize I’m lighting the last cigarette from my pack. Then I curse before throwing the empty box in the trash bin on the back porch that connects before wrapping the rest of the way around the house. And if you mention the fact that my hands seem to look as though they begin to shake when another group of bikes drive by, I’ll choke the words off before they can leave your mouth. So help me, God.

  Other than the few hundred bikes that drove through here almost a week after Grams and I pulled off the highway and into the place we would be calling home ‘til… I haven’t seen a single bike that belongs to any MC clubs, other than the ones from around here.

  And I won’t lie...it made me nervous. While Grams and I were unpacking when we first moved in, and there were more bikers driving into town directly passing the front of our house than boxes being unloaded from the moving truck. But thankfully, they must have been just driving through because after that, I don’t think I’ve even seen another red and black crucifix symbol on a bike. Unless of course it’s Daytona’s Bike Week. Which is this week. But that’s a completely different story. With upwards of five-hundred thousand bikes, there’s bound to be a few with the same symbol or emblem that Jacques Cain wears on his back, right?

  With the cigarette still lit, and Grams would roll over in her grave for it, I quickly tiptoe through my room to the bathroom connected, and turn on the hot water of the shower. Then I book it back outside to the porch and smoke, waiting for my shower water to get hot.

  I’m halfway finished with my cigarette when my phone rings. “Shit! Ty!” I curse, because I forgot to call him again and let him know I made it home from work okay.

  I know, it’s pathetic. But what’s a girl to do?

  I’m certainly not going to bitch about being the only problem my gay friend has. It’s his problem, not mine. After grabbing my phone from my bag where I tossed it on the bed, I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Hey, Bae. Sorry! I was just about to call—”

  “No you fucking weren’t, Eve Of’May O’Malley. Go tell that shit to someone who doesn’t know you. Are you home?” he asks, and I hear his hand cover the phone. “No, it’s alright. Just give me a minute, Dave.”

  “Yes, Father. I’m home.” I chuckle, stubbing out my cigarette. “Thank you for checking on me.” I make my way inside, stripping small layer after small layer of my ridiculous work uniform off on my way around the phone still glued to my head.

  “And are there any boogeymen around, or am I safe to enjoy my night?” His sarcastic tone would sound snarky to a bitch, but not to me. I know him. And I love him, God bless his soul.

  “Nope, unfortunately. No men. Boogey or otherwise.” I sigh in the phone while testing the temperature of the water with my right hand when I make it back to the tub.

  “Yeah, well, you’re the only one holding you back there, sweetie. I can’t fuck all these hot guys for you. As hard as I’m trying, I don’t think it’s gonna be a possibility. I don’t know how to tell ya…”

  “Uh huh. Why are you still pestering the shit out of me? Go be fabulous. Go be gay. Quit fucking with me. Haven’t you learned yet? I ride solo.” Okay, I’m only partially whining.

  “Oh no you don’t, Eve!”

  “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Okay, I’m getting in the shower. You go on your date. I’ll see you tomorrow after work. We still on?”

  “Oh hell yes, ma’am, we are. Can’t wait! I love you, bitch!”

  I should've known last week when the back kitchen window was found broken that Ty’s paternal spikes would be more noticeable. Anytime when there's an incident somewhat involving my safety, he loses his shit. Especially since Grams passed two years ago. Every time? Bitch, every time. And until his feathers are calmed back down, I’m forced to deal with this new paternal urge of his towards me.

  After we’ve said goodbye and I hang up, I step into the shower and I swear, as soon as the hot pelting water hits my tired aching flesh, I almost cry it feels so good.

  I’m happy, I guess. If someone were to ask me how I feel these days, I’d say I’m happy. Inhaling the fresh lemon and apple scent of my shampoo as I lather the smoke smell of the club from my hair, I can’t help as the thought crosses my mind that I should be. Happy, that is.

  I’ve been much worse. I’ve certainly lived much worse, that’s for sure. I have my own house; though I didn’t put myself in it—it’s mine. I have my own car. And for the most part, I’m covering all my bills. I’m a functioning adult, as loosely as you’d like to take that term, of course. But it’s working. It may be different, or unorthodox, or abnormal, but it’s mine. And I’m happy, for the most part. I’m pretty happy with my lot in life.

  After I’ve shaved from armpits to ankles, and rinsed the conditioner from my hair, I grab the fluffy towel from the shower rod and begin wiping my face with it as I step from the old claw-foot tub. Most parts of this house are old. It’s funny, really. The entire house was a metaphor for what Grams and I built our life upon when we moved down here.

  The core of the house is probably older than dirt. But with time and storms, it’s like the crust and the mantle are new but the core, the strength of the house, is old. I wanted to tell Grams that badly. And I almost did, several times after the thought struck me one night the first year we lived here.

  But you know that interim of time? When you’re between thinking when will this life ever end? And wondering how in the hell you got so lucky? When things are still and the days pass too quickly for you to even notice? Yeah, I forgot to say it to her, sometime then. Sometime on one of those days, I put it off.

  I head towards the double doors leading to the deck on the back of the house after I throw on a band tee of Ty’s and some boyshorts. Swiping the small stack of mail from my dresser, I begin flipping through it before heading towards my bed for my bag when I remember I don’t have anymore damn cigarettes.

  “Shit!” I mutter, stepping out on the back deck, sans my smokes, mainly to let my hair air dry because it makes it easier to manage and just throw up in a bun, instead of actually paying someone to cut it, but also so I can sit out under the night sky and use the full, bright moon to glance at what bills I won’t be able to pay ‘til...next Wednesday.

  My hands still when I see her handwriting scrawled across a letter from New York, New York. “Dammit, Eden.” And I can’t promise you I’m cursing because of her or the fact that I’m out of cigarettes when my pointer finger swipes open the envelope.

  As soon as I see the black ink scribbled across the college ruled loose leaf paper the letter is written on, I wince. Why not just email? Like we’ve been doing for the last seven years?

  I don’t know what to tell you—maybe it’s Ben’s fault. Maybe it’s Mom’s. I really don’t know. I do know I wish she’d stay the hell away from the MC gangs. Jesus. Christmas.

  I mean, from Seattle through Detroit. Hell, all over Canada and the North East states. Between motorcycle life and being tucked in her daddy’s penthouse in Jersey, the girl stays unaccounted for. And I thought I was the fucking homeless vagabond. Ha!

  Since I don’t currently have a cigarette, instead of getting off my lazy, tired ass, I look out over the ocean and breathe with my sister’s letter still in hand. And I know I’m hesitating. But I take my time, scanning the surface of the sea before looking up in the beautiful starry night sky.

  “I shudder to even know, Eden Grace, what in the hell you’ve done this time,” I mutter aloud, before glancing down at the piece of paper in my hand.

  Eve,

  It’s been a while. I miss you. How’s everything been? Since Grams? Sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral. There was some stuff that was going on then with Ben. But it’s done now. I’m finished with that part of my life for good. I tried calling Mom a few times, but she’s either not home or not answering. I hope she’s not unhappy with me. But more than anything, I pray you’re not. I’m sor
ry I haven’t been a very good little sister. What I’m more sorry for though, is not trying. But I will. Soon. You’ll see, I will. Look, this is my new address in Clearwater. Not the one on the envelope, but the one at the bottom of the page. Write me and let me know what your number is. I lost my phone a couple of months back and can’t find where I wrote your number down. I was going to ask Mom but she never picked up. Gosh, I hope she isn’t mad at me. I’m doing so much better, Eve. I really am. When I get your letter, I’ll call you from the payphone outside where I’m staying! Hopefully we can visit the next time Josh is supposed to be heading through there. I love you, Eve Of’May O’Malley. I miss you like crazy! I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve done to my hair!

  Love always, your little sister~ Eden.

  I’m telling you...I don’t know what happened. And you’d think with the advantages Eve’s had… but I guess when it’s nature vs. nurture, it’s different for each individual. And yes, my Grams rattled off those exact same words, probably a hundred times in the last ten years, and that’s probably where I get the thought. I just wanted so much more from my sister. Is it too much to ask for family to just act like family? I thought when we were kids that no matter what—we’d get it figured it out. And we’d be a family. Even if it was just us. I swore, when we grew up, that we were going to be different. Not all estranged like Eleanor and Ilsa.

  And I don’t know if it’s the thought of that or the reality of it that hurts more when suddenly I remember the extra pack of cigarettes I stashed in the junk drawer in the kitchen the other day. I hop from the wicker chair I’m sitting on and cease my mental bitching and whining before hightailing it towards that direction.