Before I Wake: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 10

  “Your pops is a clever man. I personally like the BDSM floor. Although he calls it the circus floor. I don’t recall any of the shit from those rooms at the circus when I was a kid, but hey. I’m not from NOLA. You people are different down here.” He chuckles.

  I furrow my brow. “These aren’t my people,” I inform him. “I’ve never been here until three days ago. So you can stop with all that ‘you people’ shit. Why are you packing? Where are you going now?” I approach his bed and cross my arms over my chest, nodding towards the bags.

  “Sorry, Pipsqueak. Jacques just called and talked to King. They just got another bike in. Found it in the French Quarter last night. Not NYC. With another note—”

  “A note saying what, Dreads? Threatening me and my baby? Again? Does King know about it yet? I’m not standing aside anymore and allowing these men to determine my future. I can’t afford to. MY CHILD can’t afford me to.”

  “He knows, and he decided too that it was a better idea for you to go back to NYC. We thought you’d be safe here, but...unfortunately, you’re not. The letter wasn’t pretty, either. And yes, it was along those lines. Threats. But that’s it. Our MC has your back, sweetheart. We’re not gonna let anything else happen to you. Between DDDs and SOSs, I can promise you you are safe. Do you understand me, Eve?”

  I just nod. I swallow around the lump and, as vomit rises in my throat, I quickly blink and then nod again, seemingly a bit more convinced.

  “Good girl.” Dreads stops shoving bags full and zipping them closed. Then he stands in front of me before settling his hands on my shoulders. “Hey... He asked about you.”

  Still. Be still, my rampaging heart.

  The stupid tears flood my eyes again, and I glance up at Dreads. “He…” Did? But I don’t allow the last word be spoken. I swallow it down instead. “He can ask all he wants. I’m none of his business. He said so himself, Dreads. You read his letter.” The tears are so hard to blink away. So hard.

  A moment later Dreads envelops me in a huge bear hug, “You’re not just his business, Pipsqueak. You’re his Jacqueline. And, when he remembers that...there’s not gonna be any stopping him from getting to you. He’s gonna come for you, and that’ll be it for you. I hope you’re betting on an ending with you being Jacques Cain’s old lady, Eve O’Malley, because it’s happening. Now, go shower, okay? Or bathe or whatever. Take ya some clothes in there and close the bathroom door behind you. I’ll be in your room, packing your shit. We’re leaving in one hour. No questions. Jacques is on the phone with King right now, getting all the details ironed out. I’ll plug you in on the deets on the drive back home. We gotta truck, little lady. And it’s gonna be a long, fun, chatty ride.”

  No. Not no, but hell no. I try to remember where I left my damn cell phone. I need to text Ty. If there were ever a night for plan B, it’d be tonight. Ty knows the drill; he knows the safe word. And all I have to do is find my fucking cell phone and sneak a text to him without Dreads seeing me.

  Come hell or high water, I’m not going back to Jacques’ MC. There’s no way. Not without any answers from him. Not when I’m this emotionally unstable. And not after that damn letter… If he wants to talk, if he wants to reconcile, that’s fine. We’ll talk then. If he remembers his old life or his new life—or...what the fuck ever!—and he decides he does want to know his son or daughter, fine. We’ll talk about it then. But, until that happens, I’m not having shit to do with him. ’Cause I have a life to build around people who do remember me. And who know me and love me.

  I may settle down in Daytona. I may head to Orlando—though probably not ’cause the same reason I’d move there is the same reason I would probably have to move away: my mother. And I’m not completely against settling down in New York. My career opportunities are definitely better in NYC. Lauryn and Zach and baby Abi live there. And I kept in touch with a few other friends from high school, so it wouldn’t be like I wouldn’t know anyone. Or I could settle anywhere. Any place I damn well please.

  I have options. Okay? This woman, though she may be small, unwed, unemployed and almost seven freaking months pregnant... This woman has options. And I have been through hell and back, and I can AND will also get through this.

  And I’ll do so without Jacques fucking Cain.

  “Sounds fun,” I quietly mutter to Dreads as the dismal reality of my current situation settles around me.

  I’m shuffling behind him when we step through the adjoining door and into my room. I spot the big, orange pumpkin and the little mice running around it painted next to a horse falling down on the wall. Half of the horse’s body is turning into a rat’s midair, and I wonder, in the middle of all of this shit that’s happening, why my father would have had this room painted like this. And then decide to place me in it.

  It’s odd. But I’m finding that my father is odd, if he’s nothing else. Kind. Gentle. And so very caring under all of that hard, brown skin and his cold-as-ice glare. His exterior is straight business unless he’s on his bike and dressed in his leathers. Then he just looks like a scary badass. But, if you look at the laugh lines around his eyes and the creases in his cheeks, you can tell he’s had a happy life. A life full of laughs. The more I’ve come to know my father over the last few days, the more I’ve learned and the more I’ve realized how much I really like him. He’s a good father to have, if one were to have a father, and I just coincidentally recently acquired one.

  “It will be fun. Now, go.” Dreads’ voice pulls me from my thoughts, snapping me back into my shitty reality. Then the asshole shoos me towards the bathroom.

  I quickly scan my room for my phone.

  Shit, I gotta find it. Where the hell did I leave it?!

  I’m pushed the rest of the way into the bathroom, but I stop in my tracks only to be shoved forward again by Dreads with a pile of clothes at my back.

  “Here’s some clothes, Pipsqueak. Oh, shit. The Killers—that’s my shit. Good choice, little sister. You have ten minutes. Then I’m coming back in here. Be dressed.”

  I notice the music in the background and immediately feel myself go calm. Whew. I left my phone hooked up to the speakers in the bathroom. Shit. I mean, thank you, God.

  I quickly kiss my crucifix before spinning around and taking the clothes from Dreads. “Yes, sir. Will do. Ten minutes. I’ll be ready. But you gotta take me to get something to eat or at least let me cook us something in the kitchen downstairs. Let’s get our bellies full. Then I want to talk to my pops,” I let the familiar, unfamiliar word roll from my tongue and internally smile. “I want to hear from him what he wants me to do.” My eyebrows rise as I dare him to counter my requests.

  In reality, I pray to God that my bluff doesn’t get called. I need time. First, I needed my phone so I can text my best friend, but right now, I really need time. ’Cause I’m not fucking leaving Louisiana with Dreads Burgh. There’s no way in hell. I’ll leave by myself or I’ll leave with Ty. But that’s about it.

  “Why are you being so agreeable all of a sudden?” His eyebrows also rise.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. No, don’t look around!

  “What?” I scoff.

  He glances across the small space, but he looks right past the little speakers on the bathroom counter. Thank you, God.

  “Dreads, I’m sorry I was bitchy earlier. I’m freaking pregnant. With Jacques Cain’s kid, and you know it. And you know, if I’m housing something even remotely his—much less his offspring—it’s bound to cause me to act a bit grumpy. He is Mr. Grumpy Face. We all know it.”

  After he nods, he glances around the room one more time and sighs. “Okay. He is the hottest-coldest, bipolar-est son of a bitch I know, and you are carrying his kid, but try and keep a lid on it. He’s my prez, sweetheart—you’re not. I don’t have to deal with that shit from you. I’m only doing it out of the kindness of my heart. Keep that shit in mind. Ten minutes.” He looks down at his wrist, where there’s no watch. “Not a second more or I’m coming in.”

  I
salute him. “Aye, aye, captain. And we’ll talk to my pops?”

  “Yes,” he chuckles and nods. “We’ll talk to your pops. Damn, woman, you are come here, stay. Hot and cold. What the hell?” His chuckle turns to laughter.

  I cut my eyes at him. Then promptly slam the door in his face. “I know. You can go fuck yourself now, Dreads.” I talk shit to the mahogany wood door. Then I remember my phone and book it to the counter. Once I’ve locked the bathroom door I hurry and text Ty.

  Me: Ty... This is no bullshit. Snowballs. Do you understand me? SNOWBALLS!

  I start draining my bath water and start the shower, thankful for Pops’ never-ending hot water. When my phone lights up, I step back and read Ty’s response.

  Ty: Snowballs? Right now? When? You can’t just fucking text Snowballs. I’m calling.

  I almost drop my phone onto the marble counter while hurrying to text him back. I can’t let him call. If he calls, the music will stop. If the music stops, Dreads will wonder why. HE CAN’T CALL!

  Me: NOOOOO!!!!!

  I press send and then quickly text a follow-up.

  Me: They want me to go back to NY. Ty, I can’t do that right now. There’s no way I can see him again. I’ll fall the fuck apart, Ty. Please! SNOWBALLS!

  I added the hysterically crying emoji. You know, for good measure.

  Ty: *Sighs* Okay, okay. What’s the plan? Am I coming to you? Or vice versa? Can you get on a plane?

  Me: No. I’m on lockdown. I need you to come to me. Now. I’ll procrastinate as long as I can. Hurry, Ty. Please! Snowfuckingballs!

  Ty: I’m coming. I’m leaving right now. Give me a few. I’ll text you when I hit the Florida state line. Shoot me the addy, baby girl. *kisses*

  I’m in the middle of one of the bays with the newest No Name No Color bike halfway in the air and half of the bike itself is in pieces at my feet when Clutch comes in.

  “Just got off the phone with King. He and his little girl are talking. Getting caught up on some history lessons she needed to know. She knows about the letters King's mother and her grams exchanged. The old lady must've hidden hers pretty good. That or burned them. Eve didn’t know anything about her little gramy maintaining contact with King's mother after Ilsa was bought and paid for back in the eighties.” He chuckles.

  “I told y’all that shit. I kidnapped her,” I mutter as I stand to my full height from the floor of the garage. “I remember the look in her eyes when I asked her…” I stop my words. I shut the fuck up. Right in the middle of tossing my impacts into a duffel bag, I snap my damn mouth shut. And mentally chase something as a headache slices through the memory. My mind scrambles, almost tripping over itself to get back to it.

  She was just right there. She was in a bed. A hotel? Or the same one from the picture in my phone? I mentally pull up the picture and try to remember the room, but I can’t. All I see is her. And all of that beautiful, fucking tanned skin. Glowing...almost.

  “You remember the look in her eyes...” Clutch steps closer, motioning for me to continue, but I wave him off.

  “Get the fuck back, man. My fucking head is killing me,” I grunt, leaning over in pain, shoving the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “Jesus. H. Christ. Where’s my pills, bro?” I try to stand and have to step back and grab a stool before taking a seat.

  A few seconds later, he hands me a bottle of water along with my pills.

  I toss two back before gulping from the bottle. After swiping my mouth with my hand, I mutter, “Thanks, man. Give me a second or two. Go shut those overhead lights out. Then we’ll talk. Don’t lose your train of thought though. Only one of us can do that at a time.” I motion towards the long line of switches. “Go on, old man. I just need a few.”

  These headaches have been getting worse—as well as more frequent. However, the good news is I have been getting flashes or glimpses of memories. Nothing pertinent though, of course. And nothing substantial. They’re just glimpses. Accompanied by blinding fucking headaches. Pieces of conversations with Dreads. Pops. Pops’s funeral...

  The headaches have been so painful that I damn near lose control of my consciousness. And the damn memories in my dreams? Those are even weirder. Well, not weirder. Just intimate. They’re all of Eve O’Malley. Okay? Or at least I think they’re memories. If they’re just dreams, they’re damn good wishing material. I’ll tell ya that. Jesus. And I’ve seen the goods. I have the picture. I look at it from time to time…

  At night. When I’m alone, if I can’t sleep and I’m restless, I’ll pull it out…

  Then I’ll pull it out, all ten inches of it, and you can let your mind wander. I’m fucking restless. And, if my dreams are indeed memories, I’m pretty fucking sure I am the idiot ass who got King O’Malley’s newly found daughter knocked up. I’m coming to the realization that not only did I hit it, but I hit it without gloving it up.

  You should've been there for that migraine. Though...I won’t lie, the fucking memory of slipping into her, all of her...as deep as I could? Slamming home like I fucking owned it? That memory was worth a million fucking migraines. It was worth a seizure.

  And hell no, I’m not lying.

  The room’s been still about five minutes and the lights have been off. The headache is nowhere near eased up, but it’s abating when Clutch clears his throat.

  “You getting more flashes or whatever?”

  “Yeah, and some bitching-ass headaches behind ’em. Sucks,” I say. “All right. Go ahead. So ‘King’ and Vagabond talked? Good. She needs answers. I’m glad she’s getting some. When she gets here, she ain’t getting shit. Make sure the other brothers know that too. I don’t want her sweet-talking any of them. And she’ll try. That or she’ll flap her damn gums until the brother just surrenders the information and hauls ass from town to get away from her mouth.” I chuckle as the headache eases up a bit more. “Dreads call and give an ETA?”

  “Not yet. He said she suddenly got tired after the talk with her dad. Claimed she was”—he air-quotes her words—“‘emotionally drained.’ So she wanted to sleep tonight then head out in the morning.”

  I laugh, thinking of her shoving her weight around and making her little demands on Dreads. Then I wonder how long he’ll entertain her and let it continue, but I shrug the next thought off. It doesn’t matter. After the letter I left in her bag, the letter I’m still kicking myself in the ass for having left in said bag... After the shit I said to her in it?

  I almost shudder as I think back on my words. I was pissed when I wrote them. I was angry, and I wasn’t ready to see her, especially after that fucking shit with Rox. So, when I found her in the yard, laughing at some shit her cousin Philip had said, I almost came out of my skin.

  I’d been talking to her! I spoke to her. We had an entire conversation. Hell, I fed her burgers the night before she left the compound and went to visit Ty and L, Zach’s wife. And she wasn’t all laughs and giggles with me. What was he saying that was so damned funny?

  I don’t know where my patience goes where Vagabond’s concerned. I can’t explain my fucking temper, but it pissed me the hell off. She should’ve been trying to find me.

  Or saying goodbye. Hell, or asking for the keys to my room so she could get her bag. Not laughing it up in the boneyard with Slim, Beau, and Philip like she didn’t have a fucking care in the world. Like she wasn’t pregnant and didn’t have a goddamn No Name, No Color MC chasing her ass from Daytona to New York to New Orleans. Is she even fucking sane?! No, I’m asking you! Is she? I can’t fucking remember that part!

  “I see no issues with the poor thing resting for the night. Let her get all bright-eyed after a night’s rest. Then they can hit the road. Make sure Dreads knows she’s to ride with him, though, in the truck. Is he keeping an eye on her?” I ask as I flip the lights on overhead and stalk towards the other NNNC bike jacked up in the air.

  I snatch the bolt cutters from the floor and make my way to the other bike’s fairing before gritting my teeth and lining it up to
the chrome chain links holding the bikes windshield up. Because I’m a dick and I’m suddenly feeling perturbed that I won’t be seeing her for another few hours than I’d already planned. And I wanna take it out on this No Name No Color bastard’s bike. I feel like it’d be therapeutic. Actually, I know it will be.

  “Yeah. They’re in adjoining rooms at her pops’s hotel. He’s got a pretty good eye on her.” He motions towards the bike. “So, what’s the plan here—”

  His words freeze my motions. I stand and then face him.

  “What’s that supposed to fucking mean? A pretty good eye?” I narrow my eyes on the old man in front of me, not giving a single fuck that he just lost his only daughter to the club I run. “A pretty good eye on what of hers? Did he say something? Along those lines?”

  “What?” His hands rise in surrender. “Hell no. What the fuck is wrong with you? I didn’t mean it that way, and you know better. Dreads is your fucking brother, young man. Don’t forget that shit! And you damn sure don’t let that shit get in between the two of you like your fucking pops did. Pussy ain’t worth it, son!” His hand connects with the side of my face.

  When I blink and my gaze lands on his, I think he’s as surprised as I am that he had the balls to say what he said. Then he finished with a ‘pat’ across my face.

  That’s been there a while, obviously. Touchy subject for the old man, and it piques my interest.

  I rub my jaw and slyly glance up at Clutch. Then I settle my hands on his shoulders and smirk. “Pops piss you off with that shit too, old man?”

  “God-fucking-dammit, yes. His brother Chase did, too. I couldn’t stand it when them boys would let those bitches get in between them. Bros first. Always.”

  After his hands mirror mine by settling on my shoulders, I embrace the oldest brother SOS of NYC has and then slap him on the back.

  “Absolutely, Clutch. Bros before hos.” I chuckle. “Sorry I’ve been such an asshole as of late. I’m working on it. Plus, I have a doc’s appointment in a few weeks, so there’s that.” I slap his shoulder again and step back. Then I shove my hands into the front pockets of my greasy. worn-out jeans. “We’ll get my meds and shit fixed. The club’s already coming together. The books are good, and I have new plans in our future. With King tightly involved. First, we gotta get through this Ben shit. I hate to say it. One more bleed to burn. Then we can finally begin to move forward.”