Finding Nirvana (Black Shamrocks MC, #5)

by Kylie Hillman

  “Well, if Jerry Garcia can manage it, I don’t really have an excuse.”

  Nothing else is said for a long moment. I can feel his gaze running over the back of my head while I look out the window hoping that someone will come soon.

  “Me and you haven’t been real tight.” I don’t answer him. It’s not a secret that we aren’t the closest. “I just want you to know that I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. If you need someone to talk to, I’m available. My door is open whenever you need me.”

  I continue staring out the window. His offer reminds me of just after my mum died. He’d pulled me aside and said something similar back then. The memory flits free and comes back to the forefront of my consciousness, bringing with it my old feelings of wishing that he was my dad because even after his wife died, at least, he still loved Mad Dog. My own father couldn’t be in the same room as us for month’s after Mum died. I don’t think he ever got over his distaste for us—he just learnt how to hide it better. Which was a bitter pill to swallow when I grew up watching Uncle Butch, Conan, and Viking act like they’d kill anyone who laid a hand on their sons.

  “You don’t have to take me up on it.” Viking breaks the silence that met his suggestion.

  Pulling my attention away from the window, I force myself to look at him. With a smile on my face that I know doesn’t reach my eyes, I say, “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  The silence returns while we wait.

  There’s nothing more to be said, anyway. We both know that I’m never going to take him up on his offer.

  “Time to get up, sleep head.” I poke my head into my five-year-old daughter’s bedroom. She’s barely visible behind the mound of teddy bears that she insists on sleeping with. They all have names, and God forbid, I forget what each one is called. There’s hell to pay, then.

  Jasmine doesn’t move. I walk to the side of her bed and peer down at her. As always, the sight of her innocent face makes my heart skip a beat. She is my spitting image. My Mini-Me. My reason for breathing.

  Her pouty lips twitch, then her eyelids flutter. I have to stifle a laugh. Someone wants the tickle monster to come and play. Leaning over her, I slip my hands under her covers and up her pyjama top. My fingers have barely touched her before she’s giggling uncontrollably.

  “Hmmm, I think someone needs some help to wake up this morning.” I laugh as Jasmine wriggles around on her bed trying to escape my hands.

  “Mummy. Mummy. Stop,” she squeals. “I’m awake, silly.”

  “Are you sure?” Leaving her tummy alone, I tickle under her chin. “You still seem a bit sleepy to me.”

  My laughter is as loud as Jasmine’s. Once I can hear that her breath is starting to become harder to catch, I pick her up and settle her on my hip. My ear is practiced from many trips to the ER with severe asthma attacks over the years. I know it’s important to treat her normally, while maintaining the vigilance her condition calls for—as much as it annoys my wilful daughter when she catches me.

  Wrapping her little arms around my neck, she plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “I love you, Mummy.”

  It feels like my heart expands in my chest to three times its normal size anytime she says those words. Today isn’t any different. “I love you too, my little peanut.”

  I carry her out of her bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. The daily grind is about to begin. How fun. Not.

  This thought is popping into my head with increasing regularity lately. Where I once enjoyed the regimented routine of my life, it’s becoming less appealing. I miss having fun, being spontaneous, and breaking all the rules.

  Sitting Jasmine on her stool at the breakfast bar, I push my growing discontent to the back of my mind. My last walk on the wild side ended with me pregnant and alone. Which—despite my love for my daughter—isn’t a chain of events that I want to repeat.

  “I’m not your peanut. I’m your jelly bean.” Jasmine informs me while I start preparing her cereal. “Jelly beans are better.”

  I slide her bowl in front of her and set about making my first of many coffees for the morning. “You’ll always be my peanut.”

  “Why?”

  Her question makes me smile. We have this conversation almost every morning. “Because I’ve loved you since you were the size of a peanut. That’s why.”

  Jasmine spoons cereal into her mouth. Milk runs down her chin when she speaks. “That’s what the doctor said to you, isn’t it? That I was the size of a peanut in your tummy.”

  My smile dims. The rumbling sound of a Harley fills the air, setting my pulse racing. I place my cup down on the bench, absentmindedly ruffling Jasmine’s hair as I pass her. “Yeah, baby, that’s what he said.”

  I walk quickly to the front window and pull the heavy drapes aside. The bike sounds like its slowed down. My suspicions easily confirmed when it passes my house at a snail’s pace. The rider looks in my direction. The curiosity that made me snoop comes back to bite me in the ass when I recognise the person riding the bike.

  It’s Cam. My ex-boyfriend; the new President of the Mavericks of Mayhem according to my anti-biker father; and, worst nightmare all rolled into one.

  He stares at my house until he passes. The sound of his Harley grows louder again when he speeds up. I stand at the window, curtain held back for an eternity. Visions of my life from five and a half years ago come flashing back.

  The crazy parties, too much alcohol, and him. The wild boy with the motorcycle. My one rebellion. He was everything to me back then, until I found out that I wasn’t anything to him. I was the good time girl who he slept with when she was around, whispering promises and making fake plans to keep me coming back, but happy to find a substitute when I wasn’t there.

  “Mummy,” Jasmine tugs on my dressing gown. “I go get dressed now?”

  My mind is stuck in the past as I peer down at her—into the chocolate brown eyes that are the only thing she doesn’t share with me.

  “Sure, peanut.” I plaster a grin on my face. “Race you.”

  I make a move like I’m going to run. Jasmine squeals and sprints for her bedroom, leaving me to trail behind. It doesn’t how hard I try; I can’t shake off the feeling of my past coming back to haunt me.

  My daughter turns the corner into her room, disappearing out of sight. She’s in a hurry to beat me at dressing, since she knows that I’ll put an extra treat in her lunchbox if she’s ready on time without a fight.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter how quick she gets dressed this morning; there’s a fight coming anyway. With the man I left without a word, taking with me nothing but what was left of my dignity.

  And, unbeknownst to me, a massive secret.

  A secret that’s now a metre tall with dark brown hair, a sunny disposition, and his eyes.

  His daughter.

  Kyle opens the door to the Club’s van. I refuse to acknowledge his presence, determined to find a way out of this appointment. With my arms folded across my chest, I lean my head back on the head rest and close my eyes.

  “Get out.” He barks at me.

  I don’t open my eyes. “No.”

  He punches me in the upper arm before launching into a tirade. “I thought you were over acting like a fucking baby? Go and do the physio. Get to know Sascha. And, keep a bloody eye out for anything out of the ordinary. It’s pretty fucking simple.”

  When he pauses, I know what he’s going to say next. Not that knowing it’s coming lessens the pain any. “Even a cripple can manage it.”

  On the inside, Kyle’s taunt makes my blood boil. On the outside, I maintain my pretence that I can’t hear him. We stand in silence for a few minutes until the quiet is broken by the sound of approaching Harley’s.

  Without lifting my head, I turn to Kyle and growl. “I’m the baby? You’re the one who had to call Mad Dog for backup.”

  “Didn’t call him. It’s the fucking Mavericks, you dickhead.” He crouches down at the side of the van and slides his mobi
le out of the inner pocket of his cut. Pressing the screen, he holds it to his ear, then hisses at the person on the other end. “We’re at her office. Have a least four Mavericks pulling into the parking lot. How should we proceed?”

  I slide down in my seat so that the van looks empty, twisting so I can watch Kyle getting his orders. There’s a pause and then he speaks again. “Okay. Will do.”

  He gestures me to lean down to him. I do the best I can. “Mad Dog said to head inside. You need to keep Sascha busy and outta sight while I keep a watch on the Mavericks. Our brothers are close by. Can be here in five minutes if anything goes down.”

  Knowing when I’m out of options, I reach over and grab the bag that holds my board shorts and a towel. I get out of the van and stand next to Kyle who’s still crouching out of sight.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for? The Mavericks to grab her?”

  When he puts it like that, I don’t need telling twice. A knot of worry grows in my gut as I walk as fast as I can into Sascha’s building, glancing back over my shoulder every now and then. The sound of the Harley’s dies, but no one follows me.

  The heaviness of my concern is matched by my urgency to see Sascha. Until I heard the fear in Kyle’s voice it hadn’t dawned on me just how tied to the outcome of this war she is. She’s Wendy’s daughter, Brendan’s twin who had been labelled as dispensable until now. Why Thomas decided to pass Brendan off as his son with his wife, yet let his ex-business partner adopt Sascha is the question that the Shamrocks are trying to answer. Sascha Koswalski is the key to winning this war. A war that she doesn’t seem to know she’s part of.

  Yet.

  I hurry through the doors into her empty waiting room, skidding to a halt when we come face to ass. Sascha is standing on a tall stool. She’s peering out of the window, her fingers holding two slats apart. If I moved forward another foot I could sink my teeth into one of her round cheeks.

  Jesus, Joel. Get a grip.

  Instead, I drop my bag to the floor and clear my throat. Sascha spins around, her foot slipping when she does. Arms flailing, she tries to regain her balance, but it doesn’t work. As she falls, I notice that her eyes are amber—a colour I’ve never seen before on a real-life person—and that her lips are ruby-red and plump, making perfect pillows for me to slide my cock between.

  Her descent seems to be happening in slow motion, and even though I’m mesmerised by the features that combine to create her beautiful face, my mind knows that I need to intervene. The protective instinct that I feel for a select few has been activated and it’s making the synapses between my brain and my useless limbs fire overtime.

  Someway, somehow, my feet take me toward her, my arms lift in the air, and my hands move to catch her before she hits the floor. Of course, my knees give way under the weight of her body and we crumple to the carpet together. All-in-all, it’s a win by my standards. The last time I remember achieving this much synchronicity is months ago when I saw Mad Dog’s fist heading for Maddi’s face and I succeeded in getting there in time.

  There’s also that time a few weeks ago when you managed to run fast enough to get a front-row view of a bullet entering your brother’s skull.

  “Wow.” Sascha pulls me back to the here and now. Her cheeks are red and she’s looking flustered from our close contact. I’d be lying if I said my own body wasn’t vibrating from the desire to thread my fingers through her luxurious mane and drag her mouth to mine.

  I’m trying to imagine what that would feel like when she speaks again. “That was a great mark. You must’ve played footy.”

  “Not likely,” I snap. Her assumption brings forth more memories of Benji and me—the pair of us carving up the field during Under/16 footy matches. Young, dumb, and full of cum, Dad used to call us. “Can’t stand football.”

  “Uh, okay.” Sascha stands, then holds out a hand to help me to my feet. I ignore it, not wanting to touch her again. Hell, I don’t want to be in the same room as her at the moment. She stirs up feelings in me that can’t be settled by a BJ from a Club whore and that’s something I don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

  The funeral woke up something in me yesterday. I might be crippled and unable to do things at the speed that I used to, but I’m not useless. My limitations aren’t as big as I thought they were. I’m here to concentrate on getting my body as healthy as it can be and protect the advantage that the Shamrocks have at this time. My proximity to Sascha is purely business.

  She’s Wendy’s daughter and our leverage.

  That’s it.

  Once I’m standing, Sascha grabs my hand and pulls me behind her to the closed door behind the reception counter. She’s walking a bit too fast for me and I’m afraid that I’m going to make an idiot of myself by stumbling.

  “Whoa,” I pull my hand from hers. “Slow down there. Speed isn’t my forte.”

  Sascha spins around, flushing red when she meets my eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  The sound of Harley’s starting permeates the building. I’m assuming the Mavericks didn’t find what they were looking for—or they did. Shit, Kyle’s down there alone. I slip my phone out of the pocket in my jeans and call him. I glance at Sascha, about to apologise for my upcoming rudeness when I notice that she has turned pale.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer me, seemingly concentrating on the receding noises made by the departing bikes. Once they can’t be heard anymore, Sascha paints a smile on her face and shrugs. “Nothing.”

  “What’s up?” Kyle answers his phone.

  “Nothing up here. What about you?”

  “It’s good now. They wanted to know why I was here. I told ‘em to fuck off and they left.” Sascha is overly interested in my call, her eyes wide, her head cocked so she can hear both sides of the conversation. I turn my back to her so she can’t understand what Kyle’s saying anymore. “You know what Cam’s like; if you look at him nasty, he shits himself and runs away. Unless you’ve got a pussy, then he develops a pair of balls.”

  “True that.” I’m not an official Shamrocks but I know enough about everything that goes on to be in the loop. Back when Cam was prospecting he was known for his quick fists with the whores that the Mavericks used in the brothels they run. Not that I ever told my father, but I was planning on prospecting once I finished my apprenticeship. Didn’t get the chance. I ended up a cripple instead, which meant I can’t fulfil their “No ride. No patch” rule.

  “I’ll leave you to it. Gotta find some information for Mad Dog before he loses his shit.”

  “Okay,” I laugh as I end the call. Another chuckle bubbles in my chest at Kyle’s panic to get Mad Dog his information. My childhood friend is ridiculous scared of his President. I’ve never seen them have a fight so don’t ask me why—my best bet is that it’s something to do with Benji.

  Internally, I startle at the reminder of my brother and the reason why I’m here. Turning back to Sascha, I ignore the bolt of interest that the sight of her beautiful face and lithe body sends to my dick. It’s time to start gathering information of my own.

  “Why were you looking out the window?”

  She shakes her head, then gestures me to follow her. “No reason, really. Just not a fan of bikers. They’re scum of the earth, as far I’m concerned.”

  Any thoughts I had that she might be attracted to me dies. Her tone is hard-edged, making it clear that she’s dead serious. It’s another reason to keep my head in the game and my cock under control. Because while Kyle made a point not to wear his cut when we were here the other day, my affiliation with the Shamrocks is going to come out eventually.

  “My dad is the mastermind behind the anti-biker laws in Queensland,” Sascha announces, proudly. The blood in my veins turns to ice when she stops and waves me into a room that looks like a gym.

  “Ivan Koswalski?” I ask, even though I already know. He’s been in the papers expounding the virtues of the anti-biker laws that are supposed to pr
event us conducting business as a Club—and make it legal to lock up suspected “biker” criminals without bail. These are the laws that Thomas Taylor used to keep Mad Dog behind bars without sufficient proof.

  Learning just how involved Sascha’s father is with all of this is one of the reasons that I’m here.

  Sascha props her hands on her trim hips and nods with smug satisfaction. “He’s very dedicated to stamping out those heathen’s existence. I hope he doesn’t stop until every biker club in Queensland is ruined.”

  I’m not sure what I said to upset Joel, but he’s just gone from cold to downright frosty. There’s nothing left of the man who set my heart racing when he caught me before I hit the floor and appeared to be toying with the idea of kissing me. The black scowl on his face is frankly terrifying. He sets his shoulders and straightens to his full height. Without another word he stomps into the main room of my clinic.

  “I guess Daddy’s money brought you all of this?” Joel sweeps an unsteady hand around the huge room, gesturing toward the pool, the exercise bikes, and other various pieces of equipment that fill one side of the room. He’s having the same reaction to my state-of-the-art setup that everyone else has. My father’s money must have purchased everything for me.

  Well, there’s no denying it. My dad did. He made sure that I had the perfect launching pad for my career and I feel no reason to be ashamed of that. It’s what dad’s do for their children if they can afford it. Although, it does irritate the crap out of me when nobody takes into account my hard work and dedication. Dad could throw all the money in the world at my clinic; it still wouldn’t be as successful as it is if I didn’t have a list of satisfied patients longer than my arm to show for all of my effort.

  “Yes, he did.” My tone is snippier that it should be, but his assumption annoys me more than usual. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  Joel leans against one of the tables. Shrugging, he replies, “Nope. Was just wondering.”