Demented Sons Series Volume One: Books 1-4 (Demented Sons MC Iowa)

by Kristine Allen

  “That’s a really big bow. It’s really pink.”

  “Fanks.” Her eyes continued to look at me with expectation. “I’m Sera. It’s short for Serafina.”

  “That’s pretty. I’m Indigo.” My dirty hand went out to shake hers but she just looked at me. When I realized she didn’t know what I was doing, my hand fell awkwardly to my side where my fingers just wigged aimlessly until I shoved both hands in my pockets. I’m sure I sat there with my head tipped to the side, just like Buster had to me. She was like a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. There were very few children my age I had interacted with, so she was an enigma.

  “Indigo is a color, not a name. It’s in my big box of crayons, so I know. But it’s okay. You’re gonna be my friend ‘cause I saw you first. Okay?” She was shaking her head as if this was a foregone conclusion.

  “Ummm sure.” My Abuela called me in, and as I turned to leave the little girl next door shouted and I turned my head to look at her once more.

  “See you later, friend!” Her little pink-tipped fingers waved at me and a big smile spread across her face. With the sun shining from behind her, it lit up her golden hair like a halo. Not that I can be sure because, like I said, I was only five, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with her that day.

  Book number three has come to a conclusion. What the heck? I cannot even begin to tell you how I got here. It seems like a dream.

  Penny, as always, I thank you for believing in me from the beginning. I truly believe, without your motivation and encouragement, this book and the two before it would never exist. Sybil Bartel, author extraordinaire—you are amazing and humble. I appreciate you more than you will ever know. You and Penny are really the ones who made all this happen through your encouragement, information and patience with a new author you didn’t even really know. <3

  To my two new book-loving friends, Brenda and Lisa, who I have Lani Lynn Vale, and her group Lani’s Lovelies, to thank for uniting us—thank you for singing my praises. And thank you for making me almost cry with your amazing compliments on my writing. Book signings, here we come!

  Clarise Tan, continues to outdo herself with every cover, and this one completely kicks ass! Of course, that could have just a little to do with Eric McKinney’s amazingly hot photos of Mark Somsky. Eric, you are a photographic genius. Mark, well, you humbled me by agreeing to grace my cover, and actually taking the time to answer my questions personally. I’ll send you a big stick with your copy of this book—to beat the ladies off with. ;)

  Stacey, your diligent work makes my words look beautiful and professional. For that, there will never be thanks enough. You are still a goddess.

  Ladies of Kristine’s Crazy Fangirls, thank you for your advice and the smiles you give me with your comments. Oh, and thank you for being patient with me when I don’t post daily because I’m in the writing zone or—ugh, working. Y’all rock.

  And as always, my last-but-never-least, a massive thank you to America’s servicemen and women who protect our freedom on a daily basis. They do their duty, leaving their families for weeks, months, and years at a time, without asking for praise or thanks. I would also like to remind the readers that not all combat injuries are visible nor do they heal easily. These silent, wicked injuries wreak havoc on their minds and hearts while we go about our days completely oblivious. Thank you all for your service.

  To Penny. Because you believed in me from the very beginning.

  I WAS ONLY FIVE the first time my parents dropped me off at my abuela’s house in San Antonio, TX. Bet you didn’t see that coming, huh? Yes, I’m part Hispanic. The gray eyes and light skin throw people every time. Abuela called me her little güero. You see, my grandfather—my papa—was a big, tall, gray-eyed man of Norwegian and Irish descent, and when he met my tiny little Mexican grandmother, it was love at first sight. At least that’s what he told me and anyone else who would listen. So I had obviously inherited his and my father’s Caucasian complexion instead of my grandmother’s Mexican and Native American coloring. Hence güero—her little light-colored boy. Don’t mistake it for a slur; it was definitely a term of endearment.

  One of my favorite pastimes as a little boy was looking through her old photo albums. The pictures of the two of them always made me giggle. Him so tall and her so short—“vertically challenged,” he used to call it. They ended up being more my parents than my own, and it broke my grandfather’s heart.

  My mother was their daughter. Their only daughter. One thing I remember about her is she was beautiful. Her exotic features turned heads everywhere she went from the time she was a little girl, my abuela always said, and she believed that was my mother’s downfall. They also had five strapping boys—my uncles, Alejandro, Matias, who were older than my mom, and then Samuel, Javier, and the baby, Gunnar. With Gunnar, my grandfather got his way and gave him a “strong Norwegian name.” Don’t confuse that and think that it meant he loved any of them any less. He just had to have his way with naming at least one of his sons… or so he always said.

  Anyway, I digress. My father was a wanderer. A dreamer. A “wannabe musician.” He was handsome but had no real ambition, content to travel here and there playing for enough money to get him to the next gig, sure that he would be discovered and “make it big.” He was more interested in smoking weed and dreaming than anything, but I guess he loved my mother because after they met at a college party—where he was playing with the band he was with at the time, not going to school—she got pregnant, so they eloped, and they’re still married to this day. Not that I ever see them.

  Becoming parents may have been the reason they got married—yeah, little ol’ me was on the way—but they really had no interest in actually fulfilling the role. So I saw more cities, in more states, in the first five years of my life than most people see in their lifetime. Then again, I also saw a lot of things a kid my age shouldn’t have, but back then I didn’t realize my life wasn’t normal. It just was. But once I turned five and they got in trouble for me not being in school, we found ourselves on my grandparents’ doorstep.

  There may be a lot of things I don’t remember about my childhood, but that day? I remember a lot of that day. It was the day my life changed irrevocably.

  Alone in the living room, I sat watching some cartoon over the tips of my little scuffed white-toed Converse sneakers. It was impossible to tell you what I was actually watching because I couldn’t really hear it over the yelling coming from the kitchen. Trying not to listen, I sat pulling and playing with the frayed holes in the knees of my stained jeans. My heart was pounding because I didn’t know what was going on. The next thing I knew, my father was storming past me, without even a glance my direction, before he slammed out the front door. Then my mother raced past, her flowing white shirt billowing behind her. Unlike my father, she stopped short, as if she had forgotten I was sitting there.

  “Momma? I’m hungry.” It seemed I was always hungry, and I hated to ask for things because it always made my father angry, but it was just my mother, and when it was just me and her, she was a little more like a “real” mom. She rushed to me, kneeling in front of me and framing my cheeks with her hands. She smelled funny, like she always did, but I was just a little kid and back then I had no idea the “funny smell” that always permeated their clothing and the very air surrounding them was weed. It’s no wonder it’s my go-to now when things get really shitty, huh? I came by it honest. Come on, chuckle chuckle.

  Anyway, she kissed me and gathered me in her arms. “Indigo, Momma and Daddy have to leave for a while. Your grandparents are going to take care of you until we get back. You be a good boy and help your grandma around the house. I—” My father yelled for her from the front yard, and my mom pressed a kiss to my shaggy dark head before she jumped up and ran out the door. That was it. Gone. My parents had brought me there and just left.

  Figuring I would track down my own food, I climbed down from the couch and wandered to the kitchen. My grandfather was hugging my sobbin
g little grandmother and my uncles Gunnar, Javier, and Samuel were looking angry with their arms crossed. My older two uncles were grown and had already left home. Alejandro was in the Army, and Matias was in the Marine Corps. They always joked that they had to join branches that went with their names. Of course, at that time I hadn’t even know they existed.

  When I was finally noticed, standing scared and fidgety in the doorway, my grandmother brushed off my grandfather’s comforting arms, rushed to me, and knelt in front of me on the floor. Being so small, she was my height kneeling. Not sure why that stuck in my head, but it always has. Her arms pulled me close, and she spoke softly to me in Spanish. At that time, I had no idea what she was saying. Over the years, I would learn to speak fluent Spanish with her. Much to her great pleasure, and my uncles’ and grandfather’s surprise, as none of them spoke it.

  “I’m hungry, Grandma. And I want my momma.” Tears hovered in my eyes, but I would never let them fall. It made my father angry if I cried because he said I was a “sissy.” Never knowing exactly what that meant, the tone alone had me sure it wasn’t something I wanted to be. So they may have pooled in my eyes, but they would never fall.

  My mother had told me these people were my grandparents. That day was actually the first time I’d ever met them. Essentially, I was in a house full of strangers.

  “Mijo, you can call me Abuela. We’re going to get you enrolled in school so you can grow to be a smart man someday, like you’re a smart little boy now. Okay? Your momma, well, she has some things to do.” My uncle snorted, and I looked at him in fear. “You’re safe, and we are so happy to have you here, niño.” No one looked happy. It was scary and confusing.

  That was the first day I met her. After filling my belly, my abuela sent me outside to play in the backyard with the scrappy dog they had back there. It was a dog like I’d never seen; he was coarse with gray, red, and white hairs. He had a little white mark on his forehead, and he sat there looking at me with his head tipped to the side.

  It wasn’t long before he was chasing me, nipping gently at my heels until he knocked me over and I laughed, coming up with leaves and sticks stuck all over me. He was pouncing around me and barking like he wanted me to get back up so we could start the game over when I heard the sweetest voice I’d ever heard.

  “Who are you? And why are you playing wiff Buster?” She was just taller than the short, bent-up chain-link fence she was peeking over. Her little fingers were hooked through the links, and I noticed she had chipped, bright pink nail polish on them. Her golden hair was pulled up in a wild ponytail, and she had the biggest bow I’d ever seen right on top of it. It was hanging off to the side, and wisps of blonde hair blew in front of her eyes. Tawny-brown eyes with little green flecks that stared at me.

  “Your eyes look like caramel apples, and that’s a really big bow. It’s really pink.”

  “Fanks.” She continued to look at me with expectation. “I’m Sera. It’s short for Serafina.”

  “That’s pretty. I’m Indigo.” My dirty hand went out to shake hers, but she just looked at me. When I realized she didn’t know what I was doing, my hand fell awkwardly to my side where my fingers just wiggled aimlessly until I shoved both hands in my pockets. I’m sure I sat there watching her with my head tipped to the side, just like Buster had me. She was a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. I had interacted with few children my age, so she was an enigma.

  “Indigo is a color, not a name. It’s in my big box of crayons, so I know. But it’s okay. You’re gonna be my friend ’cause I saw you first. Okay?” She was nodding as if this was a foregone conclusion.

  “Umm, sure.”

  My abuela called me before I could say more, but as I turned to leave, the little girl next door shouted, “See you later, friend!” Her little pink-tipped fingers waved at me, and a big smile spread across her face. With the sun shining from behind her, it lit up her golden hair like a halo. It wasn’t long after that when I asked my abuela if I could use my middle name, Kayde, instead of Indigo.

  Not that I can be certain because, like I said, I was only five, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Sera that day.

  “Hemorrhage (In My Hands)”—Fuel

  THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED to be my life. No one sits in their seat, cap and gown shining, at their high school graduation day and says, “I’m going to be a widow by the time I’m twenty-three.” Caressing my imperceptibly mounded abdomen with the hand holding my wad of tissues, I looked around once more, desperately seeking the gray eyes I prayed would be there for me. It shouldn’t be a surprise; after all, every call went to voice mail, every e-mail I sent went unanswered. The one person I thought would be my best friend until the day we died was conspicuously absent.

  Not that there were many close family members there. Most of the attendees were the massive group of police officers, all in their dress uniforms to pay homage to one of their fallen brothers. Tyler didn’t have a big family; the force was his family. His mom sat next to me and reached over to grab my hand when the pastor’s voice cracked, speaking of Tyler as a little boy in the congregation of his church. Tears streamed down both of our cheeks, and her watery blue eyes sought mine. Trying to be strong for everyone was killing me, tearing apart my soul bit by bit.

  My dad sat to my other side, my brother, Christian, next to him, stoic and proud. Too proud to shed a tear for the man who had been one of his best friends for the past fourteen years. However, the slight tremor of his hands gave him away, and I knew he was shattered by the loss of his childhood friend and brother in blue.

  Christian, Tyler, and Kayde had all been about the same age. The boys were the three musketeers and had been the best of friends, but Kayde had been my best friend, ever since I “claimed him” as mine when I was three, almost four. They were a year ahead of me in school, but they tolerated me hanging out with them because Kayde felt sorry for me and always persuaded them to let me tag along.

  Desperate to be part of their group and stay close to Kayde, I did my best to keep up with them, whether climbing trees, riding bikes, or just playing video games. Being younger and smaller, it was a struggle, and I ended up with more than my fair share of bumps and bruises. If I fell and scraped my knee, he was the one slapping disinfectant, antibiotic ointment, and a Band-Aid on it. At five years old, when he first moved in next door, he could do that. No one ever stopped to ask him how he knew what to do; we just took it for granted that he would fix us up. Often, I wondered why he didn’t join a branch where he could be a medic, but instead he joined the Marines.

  He’d also been a phenomenal artist, even though he kept that kind of under wraps because he said “real men” didn’t color, paint, or draw. No matter how many times I told him that was stupid, he wouldn’t share his talent with anyone but me. God, the things in his sketch books should have been framed. I often wondered what ever happened to them.

  For so long, they’d been like brothers to me, and I hadn’t seen them as anything else. Then something changed over the summer before my freshman year, and all my friends were always wanting to spend the night at my house. At first, I was irritated because they would come over and want to just sit in the living room and watch the guys play video games or throw the football in the backyard. Not understanding why they were acting that way, I got pissed and quit having anyone over. If they didn’t want to be with me, why did they want to come over so bad?

  Shortly after that, I started to notice Kayde and Tyler were actually handsome, and I began to understand. Like they were hot, which kind of made things weird when we were all together. Kayde especially, because we were best friends and it was strange to have your heart speed up and your belly flutter when your best friend walked in the room. God, he was beautiful—still is—but he was always with a new girlfriend. It made me angry because he hardly ever had time for me.

  Looking back on it, even when we were just four and six and he still went by his first name, Indigo, I always thought he was a pretty little boy. His
dark hair was shaggy and hung over his smoky gray eyes. His smile so rare but stunning in its brilliance when he let it slip.

  After Tyler moved in across the road from us, people said they could have been brothers. Except Tyler’s eyes were just a little more blue than gray and his hair was straight, where Kayde’s was slightly wavy and tended to curl at the ends if it got too long. They both had a single dimple, but on mirrored sides of their faces.

  Anyway, during my senior year, the boys were all taking classes at the community college, and one night Tyler had lagged behind as they were leaving the house to head to their evening classes. I’ll never forget how uncomfortable he looked. He had tugged on his straight, dark hair and his eyes were everywhere but me. A flush had crept over his cheeks.

  “Hey, Sera. Shit, this is… well, I mean….” Evident fascination with his feet as his shoe scuffed back and forth on the floor had his eyes averted from me. “Hell, I… I just wanted to know if maybe you wanted to… uhhh… go to the movies this weekend.” His gaze slowly lifted to look at me, and he appeared to hold his breath. Shock that he was actually asking me out had me momentarily speechless. A niggling sadness that Kayde hadn’t asked me first was shoved down quickly.

  After I got over the surprise, a warmth flooded my chest. “Um, wow! Uh, okay, sure.” His smile was beautiful. Never in a million years would I have imagined I would date one of the three musketeers. Well, the two who weren’t my brother, that is. Most times, I just felt like they thought of me as one of the boys since we’d all been friends so long. I had no idea either of them would look at me as an actual girl.