Winston: Savage Kings MC - South Carolina

by Hart, Lane

  “Hi, honey!” she answers sweetly, like the angel she is.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Zoe’s coming home next weekend?”

  There’s a long, drawn-out silence before she responds. “I didn’t have any idea she was. If Martin knew, I’m sure he would’ve told me. We’re leaving Saturday for our trip to Cabo. It’s our fifteen-year anniversary!”

  “So, she hasn’t called you?” I say in surprise.

  “No,” she answers. “If we had known, we wouldn’t have planned our vacation for that week. How exactly did you find out before us? Have you talked to her?”

  “No, and it’s a long story,” I mutter, not wanting to go into the details. “Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  After ending the call, I’m left with a million unanswered questions.

  Why is Zoe coming home now after all this time? How long is she going to stay for? And the most important one of all—does she still hate me?

  Chapter Five

  Zoe

  With my AirPods jammed in my ears, enormous black sunglasses covering my eyes, and my head resting on the window in the cramped quarters of coach seating, you would think people would get the message I want to be left the hell alone.

  Men don’t, however, because they are always thinking with their dicks.

  “Excuse me,” the guy sitting in the seat next to me on the plane says while simultaneously placing his hand on my bare knee since I’m wearing cotton shorts and a comfortable tee to try and stay cool in the summer heat.

  I pull one of the AirPods free and glare down at his fingers that I want to break, not that he can see that, thanks to the glasses covering my eyes. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I just had to ask…are you Zoe Donahue?”

  “Nope. Never heard of her,” I say before jamming the pod back into my ear.

  “Really? Because you look just like her,” he says over the sound of my music. Without removing his hand from my knee, he turns to the man sitting in the aisle seat. “Hey, man. Doesn’t she look like Zoe Donahue?”

  Aisle Guy leans forward to look over at me, staring at my chest more than my face. “Oh yeah, she does. It’s not her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could you please get your fucking hand off me?” I ask as nicely as I can possibly be nowadays.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says as he finally pulls it away.

  After ten years of enduring a rocky career that made me into a sex symbol and not much more, I’ve had it with grabby men who think they can get away with touching women however and whenever they want.

  By the time I was twenty-five, I started getting the whole, “You’re too old for us,” spiel from designers, which meant posing for less tasteful opportunities. One second, I would be in a sexy dress and the next, the photographer is saying, “Lose the dress and let’s do a few more…natural poses. You’ll love them, I promise.”

  I did love to eat and keep a roof over my head, so I took my clothes off a few times. Soon enough, the sexy shoots were the only ones I was getting called for. And thanks to the nature of the images, it led photographers and editors to attach “special” conditions to their offers that had to be met in order to seal the deal to land the front cover or center spread.

  When it comes down to it, I’m practically a whore—earning cash for sleeping with men who agree to put my naked photos in magazines or on websites for other men to use to masturbate.

  Once, when I was eighteen and naïve, I was jealous of the curvy women in Winston’s dirty magazines. Now that I am one, I hate myself.

  The self-loathing is why I haven’t been to visit my dad in years and always come up with reasons I’m too busy to have him and Deb come to New York. What must he and my stepmother think of me, their only daughter, now, when probably half of their male friends have seen me naked?

  And then there’s Winston—my stepbrother who was the first to prove his own theory that sex is all men want from me. He was right and I hate him for it.

  I have no idea if he’s married or not by now. Maybe he even has a few kids. I refuse to ask my dad about him to find out and make up an excuse to hang up whenever he tries to mention my stepbrother. I do continue to send Winston porno mags featuring me in the mail, hoping his wife or girlfriend gives him shit for them, and hoping he still thinks about the night he fucked me. I know Winston, or at least, I used to know him. And while he probably felt guilty the entire time, he still screwed me. He took what he wanted and threw me away the next morning, like I was nothing more than one of his trashy, meaningless tourist hookups.

  * * *

  A few hours later, when my Uber ride pulls up in front of my teenage home and drops me off with my suitcase, I stand in the gravel driveway for several minutes, just looking up at the one-story yellow beach house on stilts that hasn’t changed much over the years.

  When I was eighteen, I thought that the next time I walked through the doors, I would be a star. The truth is, I’m the furthest thing from it. Job opportunities are even more infrequent now that I’m twenty-eight, coming up on the big three-oh. It’s one of the main reasons I’m in town, for a job interview with a company in the middle of nowhere, North Carolina, just an hour north of here.

  Finally, gathering up my nerve, I drag my suitcase up the winding wooden stairs to the side door that’s always unlocked. It doesn’t feel right to go on in, so I knock first before pushing the door open.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” I call out.

  “Who’s there? Martin, is that you? I’m almost ready!” Debra, my stepmother, yells from the hallway before she appears. Her ear-length, dark hair is much grayer than I remember, but she’s still a beautiful woman who passed on her good looks to her son. Then I notice she’s also carrying a suitcase of her own. Oh shit.

  “Zoe? Is that really you?” she gasps. Dropping her rolling suitcase, she rushes over with her arms wide to wrap me in a hug. “Oh! It’s so good to see you!”

  “You too,” I say as I hug her back.

  “I’m afraid your dad is at the office finishing up a few things, but he should be home soon.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Well, come in and make yourself at home.” She leads me by the elbow over to the sofa. “It’s been so long. What finally brought you back home?”

  “I’m working a few small local events,” I tell her. “And there’s an opportunity for another job that could be long-term.”

  “Well, that’s great!” Debra replies. “I just wish we had known you were coming sooner.”

  “You’re leaving?” I say with a nod of my chin toward her luggage.

  “We were. Your dad and I booked a trip for our anniversary. He’s been trying to call you but couldn’t get you to see if you were really headed to town. Of course, we can still cancel…”

  “What? No way!” I tell her. “It’s my fault for surprising you. Go on your trip. I would feel terrible if you cancelled.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” she asks.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “How long are you here for? We’ll only be gone for a week, so will we see you when we return?”

  “Possibly.”

  “In that case, while we’re gone, you should stay here. It’s still your house too,” Debra says with a genuine smile, causing me to smile as well. My mom died from an infection from the C-section to deliver me, but I would like to think she was just as amazing a mother as Winston’s.

  “Thanks, Deb. I appreciate that and I may take you up on that offer.”

  “You should!” she agrees just as my dad walks through the door.

  “Are you all ready, my love?” he asks before he spots us sitting on the sofa. “Well, I think I need to have my eyes checked because you look just like my long-lost daughter.”

  “I was never lost,” I tell him as I get to my feet to go give him a hug.

  “You weren’t? It sometimes feels that way,” he says into my hair, then lets
me go to look me over. “You look well. Are you?”

  “I’m great, really.”

  “You are? That’s wonderful! Deb and I were just leaving for Cabo. You should come with us!”

  “No, Dad. I couldn’t possibly third wheel your anniversary trip. Besides, I have work here.”

  “So that’s why you’ve come home—for work, not to visit your old man?”

  “Both, of course,” I assure him with a smile.

  And while I’m sad I won’t get to spend more time with my dad and Deb this week, it’s also a relief because I won’t have to talk about or get a guilt trip for the naked photos.

  Chapter Six

  Zoe

  Before I sent my dad and Deb on their way, he gave me the keys to his BMW so I can drive myself over to the Harley dealership in an hour. First, I spend a little time wandering around in my childhood bedroom, reminiscing. While I haven’t been here in years, everything is still the same. There’s not even a speck of dust, which means Deb has been cleaning it on a regular basis.

  By now, I sort of assumed they had boxed my things up to turn the bedroom into an office or something else they can actually use. But they didn’t. I smile as I spot the photos of me with my high school friends. We all drifted apart little by little. Most of the girls are married with kids and still live in town. I could probably call them up for a reunion, but it would be too awkward. I don’t know who those people are anymore and they sure as hell don’t know me. I’m no longer the doe-eyed girl who wanted to be the center of attention, the envy of other women in designer clothes, strutting down a runway.

  Lately, I just wish I had a normal nine to five job where I get to keep my clothes on, and no one tries to get on top of me. Having a sweet husband or boyfriend to come home to doesn’t sound bad either. None of the guys I’ve dated last more than a few nights. Hell, they don’t even count as actual dates. They don’t take me out to dinner or introduce me to their friends or family. I’m nothing but a good time, a hookup to brag about to their friends.

  I don’t blame them, though. I get treated like a dirty slut because that’s the image I’ve made for myself as a glamor model. None of the men even bother to get to know me. Why should they when all they want is to get off?

  But that’s enough of the pity party since I only have myself to blame.

  I start to leave the house to head to the signing event, but first, I make a quick stop in front of the fireplace to take in the family photos on the mantel. There are several of all four of us, but none of Winston and another woman or children, thank god. The one from my dad and Deb’s wedding is probably my favorite. I’m wearing a puffy, pale blue dress with white lace trim and smiling wide enough to show off my mouth full of braces, looking like such a dork.

  And then there’s Winston, standing beside me in his black tux, his short, dark hair slicked back and so breathtakingly handsome I couldn’t speak a word to him the whole day. That was when my crush on him really started. It only grew stronger over the next few years when none of the boys at school could compare. It was an unhealthy obsession and I should’ve known it would end with me getting my heart broken.

  “What did you expect to happen, you silly girl?” I ask my thirteen-year-old hopeful self in the photo. “That he would say he loved you after he fucked you on top of a car and then follow you to Europe?”

  While I, of course, blame myself for being stupid enough to go to the auto shop that night and take my dress off, I still can’t let go of my anger at Winston for finally giving in and sleeping with me only because he knew I was leaving. I was an easy, no-strings attached fuck, like all the other tourists he screwed around with before they left town for good. He hurt me so badly I’ve never been able to trust a man again. They’re all the same, thinking with their dicks.

  And, in a few minutes, there will be a long line of them, thinking they can sweet talk their way into getting me out of my bikini bottoms. The truth is, I haven’t slept with anyone in months, and when I do, it’s out of necessity to keep working. Which is why I’ve started to think that getting paid to have sex isn’t really all that different from what I’ve been doing. Still, I’m not sure if I can throw what little is left of my dignity and self-respect out the window just to pay my bills.

  The Harley dealership in Myrtle Beach is one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. On the entire side of the enormous gray building is a black painting of a snarling skull, wearing a crown like some sort of long-dead king. The menacing image is not exactly warm and welcoming, yet the parking lot is full of cars and bikes, owned by those who aren’t put off by it.

  As soon as I park and walk through the double glass doors, I’m met by a pretty blond guy in a leather biker cut who holds out his palm for me to shake. The front white patch over his chest reads Savage Kings MC. “Hey, Zoe! Thanks for coming. I’m Cannon.”

  Great. Now I’m starting to realize the skull king outside was, in fact, an ominous warning. I try to steer clear of the motorcycle clubs after one of my promotions ended up with a group of bikers taking turns with me at their after-party that got way out of hand. I thought the president was hot, so one thing led to another with him. I just wasn’t aware the club shared everything, even, and especially, women. I will not put myself in that situation ever again.

  “Just to be clear,” I warn the man after shaking his hand as briefly as possible and releasing it to clutch my pink leather purse to my side, “I’m here for clothed photos and autographs only. The bikini stays on at all times. That’s not negotiable.”

  “No shit,” the guy snorts. “Winston about murdered me for booking you. He’d definitely kill me if I got a glimpse of you naked. I mean, outside of the magazines since I have seen you naked in them.”

  “Hold on. Did you say Winston?” I ask in disbelief. Surely there’s another Winston who lives in town…

  “Yeah, Winston Prescott. He’s your stepbrother, right? I had no idea when I booked you, I swear.”

  “Oh fuck,” I groan. “Is Winston in your motorcycle club?”

  “Ah yeah, you didn’t know that?” Cannon responds.

  “I’ve been busy and haven’t really talked to him in a few years.” Or ten of them.

  “Yeah, well, that’s too bad. He’s still a grumpy son of a bitch but he always has your back, you know? That’s why he’s our VP.”

  “VP?”

  “Vice President. He’s been helping run things ever since Roman started this chapter of the club five years ago.”

  “Right,” I say absently, still trying to wrap my head around this information. “So, ah, what does his wife think about him being in the club?” I add, trying to sound casual.

  “Wife?” Cannon chuckles. “Winston doesn’t have a wife. Kind of impossible when he’s screwing a different tourist every night, like he’s on a mission to bang a chick from all fifty states.”

  “Guess some things never change,” I mutter, unable to picture Winston as a biker. I mean, yes, I know he’s always loved anything on wheels, especially motorcycles, but I didn’t take him for the type to get mixed up with bad guys, which makes me think I don’t know anything about the man I once loved.

  * * *

  Winston

  For the past week, I’ve been distracted, unable to concentrate on anything for very long. Zoe’s dad has tried to call her but gotten no response, so all I can do is wait and see if she shows up at the dealership.

  “You still trying to decide if you’re going to see Zoe or not?” Roman asks when I’m sitting alone at the bar, after everyone else is gone. Even Leo, the quiet fucker, abandoned his bartending duty to head over.

  “Yep. You going?”

  “No,” he answers, which is a relief. “Charlotte and I are going to pick up Tessa and bring her to the house, get her settled in.”

  “Good,” I mutter.

  “You don’t have to go either. You could come with us.”

  “No thanks, prez.”

  “All right. Suit yourself. But if you
do go, keep your fists to yourself. Some of those men are your brothers, even if they occasionally act a fool.”

  “I know.”

  One thing I’m certain of is, I don’t want to see any man’s hands on Zoe and I’m not sure I could handle it without it coming to blows. But at the same time, I know I’ll never forgive myself if I miss my one and only chance to see her before she leaves. Who the hell knows how long she’s here for?

  Getting on my bike, I ride over to the dealership, not surprised but still irritated to see how packed the parking lot is, with a line formed and wrapped around the building.

  Since it looks like the line will take a while, I decide to send Cannon a text message—not one threatening to end him, but telling him I’ll be in the garage and asking if he would let me know before Zoe leaves.

  His reply is instant: Sure thing, man.

  While I wait, I decide to work on a few bikes that could technically wait until Monday but will help pass the time.

  I’m halfway through rebuilding an engine on a Softail Harley when the door to the showroom floor opens.

  I glance over, expecting to find Cannon or Conrad, but instead see a nearly six foot tall gorgeous brunette in a tiny, bright pink, string bikini, with a matching purse hanging over her shoulder. The triangles on her top barely cover her nipples, and the bottoms, well, I don’t have to see her ass to know it’s a thong.

  Zoe doesn’t say a word at first. She simply puts her hands on her hips and inhales deeply. “Wow, the smell of motor oil sure does bring back a lot of memories.”

  I’m guessing she’s referring to the night we were together, but she looks so fucking good that all the words in my mouth have dried up.

  “Don’t you have some clothes you can put on?” Those are the first words I utter, which is not how I imagined greeting her after all this time, but for some reason, I just can’t hold them back.