Before I Wake: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 9

  “I know that now, Jacques. But I didn’t at the time! And I tried to save her life. I took her back to the clinic! But I had to leave. I needed to get back to you. You needed me! I couldn’t stay behind!”

  “And Ben? The No Colors?” I growl. I’m done, I want my answers. Then I want her out of her misery. I’m fucking done. “What about them? Who tried to fucking kill me on I-95 while I was driving to your fucking house?! Who, Roxy?! Tell me!”

  “I don’t know, Jacques! I don’t know.” She sniffles and glances up at me.

  If I had a heart left, I’m sure I’d feel something besides absolutely nothing when she speaks, her eyes pleading with mine.

  “We were supposed to grow old together. Once you finished your wild ways and decided to settle down, you were supposed to pick me. I’ve always been the oldest. I’ve always been more mature.” She sniffs again and then sadly smiles. “You were my soul mate. Did you know that? I told your ma that once when I four and she was babysitting me. You were still just a baby, barely able to crawl.”

  “Roxy, don't. You're insane. I mean that in the most literal sense too, and I’m the motherfucker who’s let it get this bad. I think it's time to call this what it is: the end. You made your choices, and I’m sorry, but the club’s made theirs. Goddammit, Rox. I wish you would've chosen differently.” After shaking my head, I turn to leave.

  “I just wanted us to grow old together…” she whispers. “I wasn’t like the others. I didn’t act like a childish whore. What we had was real!”

  But I can’t listen anymore. So I slide the metal door shut behind me.

  Knowing she can’t hear me, I whisper, “No, it wasn’t Rox. We were never real.” Then I take the stairs two at a time.

  Roxy was buried as planned, and it was nice and formal. Or about as formal as a group of fifty men could get with the help of the few last old ladies who still hang out at the club. I made sure it was kept simple. A few flower arrangements were brought in from our brothers in other states as well as Roxy’s few friends and family members outside of the MC. But that was about it. It was quiet, not much was said, and what was said celebrated her life instead of the sins she trespassed right there at the end of it.

  I hate that shit with Rox had to end this way, I think as I slide my sunglasses up my nose and nod before ducking into the passenger’s side of the truck. After sliding in, I close the door behind me. Then I buckle my seat belt and lean back in the seat. I let out a sigh and glance over to Dreads.

  “Hey, bro. Didn’t expect you’d make it. How’s it going in NOLA? With our little Pipsqueak?” I chuckle, thinking of the conversations he and I have had, where he’s briefly filled me in on how well she’s fitting into the MC lifestyle down there with her daddy. And, by well, I mean not at fucking all. “She still bitching about the naked women and cigarette smoke, or has she become one with it yet?”

  He shakes his head in my peripheral, earning my attention. After he’s cranked the ignition, he blows out a loud breath between his pursed lips. Then he slyly nods. “She’s a little fucking louder than a pipsqueak, dude. Where the fuck did that nickname come from? She’s gotta be the loudest, most mouthiest bitch I’ve ever met in my entire life. Are you sure you were in love with her? That it wasn’t just some crazy infatuation? Pfft.” He scoffs before muttering, “Never mind. I remember quite well the way she fucked with your head. Awake and while you slept. You still fucking dreaming about her all the time, man? You remember that shit used to piss Mandy off so damn bad?” He chuckles as a migraine begins slicing its way through the frontal lobes of my brain.

  “My dreams? About who? Mandy?” I ask around the pain, knowing full well I haven’t fucking dreamed of Mandy. If I have ever dreamed of any one fucking woman, I’m sure it’s the exact same one I’ve been fucking dreaming about over the last six goddamn months. Vagabond. “Fuck. Another headache, man. You got something to drink in this bitch? I can’t do this graveside. Not with a fucking headache like this. This one came out of nowhere, too.” I grab another pain pill from my pocket and toss it back before chewing it.

  He hands me a bottle of water from the door of the truck. “It’s not cold, but it’s not hot, either. And no, not Mandy, you damn numb nut. Eve. Eve O’Malley. All you ever used to do was mutter her name in your sleep. Every time you passed out downstairs. At least until I could get one of the prospects to drag your ass off whatever surface you’d passed out on and make you go to bed.” He laughs again as he flips the blinker on and changes lanes. “Long time ago, bro. Almost a lifetime ago. It’s fucking amazing what that amount of time will do to somebody.” After he shakes his head, he turns the volume on the radio down a bit. “Found out anything on the No Colors and the riddles they keep sending in with their bikes?”

  “Fuck no,” I bark as my anger flares. “Not any more than we already know. They know she’s pregnant. They want her life and her child’s. Told me to give O’Malley a heads-up. They were coming.” I shake my head before bringing my hand to my face and shoving my forefinger and my thumb into my eye sockets until I see spots.

  His high whistle reverberates through the cab of the truck. “And? You do that shit yet, bro?”

  It’s quiet for a few beats.

  Then I answer. “No. That’s your fucking job. You do it. Now, start talking more about Eve. I want to know what her daily routine is and shit. I need to get an idea of her schedule if I’m going to get some more guys down there and set up a tighter security. At least until Ben is found.”

  “And O’Malley? Am I supposed to inform him of this extra security that you’re planning to move onto his turf?”

  As he pulls the shiny, new truck behind the limousine Roxy’s mother and Clutch rode in to follow her hearse, I fumble with my lighter for a second. Then I light my cigarette and re-cuff my sleeves, which I rolled up unconsciously on the ride over.

  After both wrists are buttoned, I button my cut and slam the passenger’s side door open. “I don’t give a fuck what you tell O’Malley. I’m sure he’ll notice the motherfuckers snooping around his club—so if he asks for an explanation, fuck it. Give it to him. I don’t give a fuck if he knows.” I point to the spot in the graveyard where a mound of fresh dirt is piled up beside a grave marker with lilac and white roses, Roxy’s favorite. “Let’s go get this fucking shit over with. I’m ready to lay this one to rest. Hell, I’m almost ready to lay it all fucking down to rest, myself included. But, first, we got this technical, formal shit to do.” I push my sunglasses back up the bridge of my nose before stepping from the truck and shutting the door.

  When Dreads comes to stand beside me, his right hand lands on my left shoulder. “We ain’t laying shit to rest, brother. Not for a long fucking time. And not with me around. You’ll get your memory back. Soon. I don’t know when, but the docs say every day is another day closer to the day you remember. You’ll get your head straight. You’ll see. Maybe you need to pray about it. It’s been a few weeks since you went to Mass.” He winks as we step closer to the gathering of people standing around in the sun in fucking black. “This is so ridiculous, by the way.”

  “No. It’s not, Dreads. It’s respect and protocol, brother. You know that.”

  My father set me up in pretty freaking nice digs, I can't deny. Even for an MC. And, soon after arriving, I realized that, while most MCs are a lot alike, not all are created equal. Especially in the financial department. I haven’t yet assessed if it’s because my father’s just better off than Jacques and his club or if maybe it’s because of the longer history Renee King O’Malley’s MC has that Jacques Cain’s doesn’t. My father’s father traveled from Cali to New Orleans. He went nomad because of family reasons. Anyway, he’d only been here two weeks when he met and married the daughter of one of DDDs highest-ranking patch holders. This all happened back in the ’50s. Back then, being a member of the Hellena's Angels wasn’t a big deal. Mainly because no one had really heard of the California bikers’ club.

  After I’d Googled th
em because the name was a bit familiar to me and gathered some more information, I quickly realized the popularity of said MC. It’s grown over the last sixty years. Substantially, too. Hellena's Angels is one the largest MCs in the United States. And it’s the most popular.

  So, not only am I the product of one of the biggest MCs in the South, aside from Texas, but I also have Hellena’s Angels members’ blood running through my veins. And that’s a pretty damn big pill to swallow, even for a twenty-six-year-old. Thanks, Ma.

  “Hey. Saw your boy earlier today. What is that all you do? Read?” Dreads stops midstride in front of my chair before flipping the book in my lap over and scanning the cover. “This Man? And these motherfucking nuts…” he singsongs before chuckling and heading towards the little side bar in the brick courtyard outside.

  “Ahh...I don’t see anything else to do around here besides read smut, do you? The only type of people around are freaking bikers. Haven’t my mother and Eden fucked up enough of our lives by associating with bikers? I’m not planning on meeting any new friends and repeating their mistakes.” The smartass words just keep coming. Fuck it—call it hormones. For real, this time. Pregnancy ones at that. “And he’s not my freaking boy. Don’t say that shit, Dreads. One damn emotion at a time, okay? I’m not fucking there yet.” I glare at him.

  “Okay. Touché.” He raises his hands in false surrender. “But do me a favor. I need you to stick to the club. He needs you to stick to the club. He asked me to ask you. There’s some shit going on that you don’t know about and—”

  I’m not certain if you’ve ever come to that place during a conversation with another human being—another irritating AS FUCK human being—and you are left with two options. One, you find a chair and slam that bitch into the person’s face or, two, you walk away. You just stand up and walk the hell away.

  Since my chair is the only one present besides the huge, overstuffed wicker couch and the loveseat and there is no way in hell I can lift those, I do the latter.

  I walk the hell from the room, bitching the entire time. “Whatever, Dreads. I’m not listening unless I get some answers. And I'm not doing a damn thing he says. Nor am I doing as he demands. If he wants me to do anything, he can start explaining and he can tell me himself or have my father tell me. That’s as far as I’m willing to bend. He didn’t even give me answers. He left a note in my fucking bag. Which is petty. And childish.” One of my hands land on my little pooch of a belly and my other hand, on its own volition, grasps the charm on a necklace that never leaves my neck. Never.

  Then I pick up my pace and make my way towards the lobby.

  When I feel Dreads coming up behind me, I growl at him before glaring over my shoulder.

  “Can’t a girl get something to fucking eat around here?! Or a milkshake?!”

  As soon as he chuckles, I swear I think I’m going to lose it. All of it.

  “Yes, you can, Vagabond. There’s no need to starve. I’ll take you to go get something to eat. Sheesh. Why are you being so dramatic?”

  Dramatic? Dramatic. He thinks I’m being dramatic? I laugh, and it almost sounds maniacal. No, it does. It’s creepy as hell, even to my own ears.

  “Dramatic. Yeah, that’s what I’m being. Drugged. Kidnapped. Drugged. Impregnated. Then kidnapped again without knowledge of previous information or the health care needed. But who’s being dramatic?” Before I even realize what I’m doing, as I step into the foyer of the lobby, I spin on Dreads, my newest, nearest confidant, and stab him in the middle of his chest with my pointer finger before coming up onto my tiptoes and getting as much into his face as I can.

  He’s tall. As hell. Not as tall as Jacques, but still a lot taller than I am.

  “You self-righteous bastard. Don’t patronize me. I won’t stand for it! Do you know where I was last year this time? Do you have any idea how calm and UN-dramatic my life was? I WAS AT HOME! I went to work, I got home, I reported to Ty. I washed, rinsed, and repeated. That was fucking it! And NOW! NOW?!”

  I’ve been warning you. As I’ve been warning them…

  There’s only so much a woman can take before she just can’t take any more. And I’m there, at that point. Dreads may not know it. Beau, the extremely attractive acting treasurer member of my father’s MC, who just so happened to be exiting the elevator as I began my rant, may not know it. Hell, every other male in this building housing upward of two hundred motorcycle club members may not know it. But I just hit my limit. And I can’t—no, I won’t—be held responsible for my reactions to the shit these men dragged my life into.

  “I’m going home! Fuck it, I’m going home! I’m not doing this. I’m not staying here. I can’t do this anymore—” I hiccup before the tears threaten, and then it’s just... Well, then it’s embarrassing.

  I can’t control my bladder. I can’t control my anger. I can’t control my emotions. I can’t even control the freaking food I swallow! How?! How does just knowing you're suddenly six months pregnant trigger EVERY damn pregnancy symptom known to mankind?! Should I expect the pregnancy mask next too?

  I stumble as I head to the elevator. After stabbing the button for the 10th floor, where my room is, I cross my arms over my chest and glare through my tears at Dreads when he winks.

  “You know I’ve gotta come with you. What are you doing, Eve? Why are you so pissed? You wanna talk about it?”

  “No,” I simply state as he steps onto the elevator.

  He tries to scoot over to my side of the small space, and I duck under his arm when he goes in for a sideways hug.

  “Stop, Dreads. Just stop. I don’t want to talk about anything. There’s nothing to say. I’m ready to start my life, okay? What’s so hard to understand about that? I need money. I need my house. I need a job. Then I need to get a freaking crib.” I point to my belly. “Soon, in case you haven’t noticed. And I can’t do that shit here. In lockdown. I won’t. I have my license to do hair now. Did you know that? I passed the classes. And the fucking test. I can take care of myself. If y’all would just let me.”

  The elevator dings just before the red doors slide open, and he ushers me out with his hand at the small of my back. After quickly stepping forward, I move to the side and try his “you go ahead” maneuver because his door is the first one to the left and mine is the second.

  When Dreads gets to his hotel room, he looks over his shoulder as we both go to swipe our keycards. “As soon as I step into my room, I’m opening the door to our adjoining rooms. You think I don’t know about your history? As soon as Jacques found out Ilsa had two kid daughters at that party that night he took an underage kid’s virginity, he did his homework. You think he didn’t put two and two together? Before he lost his memory, he remembered you from the bus station. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.” He nods before sadly smiling. Then he steps through the door.

  “Before he lost his memory, he remembered you from the bus station.”

  Damn straight he remembered me. And he did his homework? So? What’s that supposed to mean?

  I huff out a sigh as I enter my cool room. Then I close the door behind me, lock the deadbolt, and slide the latch. You can’t be too safe, and I’ve heard my father’s men whisper. I know there’s a target on my back.

  I’m at the point where my sanity won’t allow me to care. I can’t take living in this damn fishbowl anymore!

  I start the bath water and hook my iPhone up to the Bose speakers. Once I find my favorite playlist, I push play and “Be Still” by The Killers spills out into the bathroom.

  Finally, my mind begins to clear as I hum the lyrics.

  After the tub is full, I knock on Dreads’ door. I don’t want him to barge in, but I also want a damn bath. I’m tired. My back hurts, and my ankles are swollen. Don’t ask. Apparently, that’s another pregnancy symptom. And, as you can already tell, I’m chock-full of them lately.

  “Dreads, I’d like to take a bath. You said this door would be opening as soon as y
ou stepped into your room, and it’s not opening... Is it cool for me to bathe before we start this chat?”

  I’m no happier than I was a few minutes ago; my patience is no sturdier, either. I’m trying like hell to keep a grasp on the few threads of sanity I have remaining. And acting like a whiny, crying bitch won’t help my situation anymore. But it could hurt it. I’m smart enough to know now’s not the time to show my cards. Ty and I talked. Before I left New York, we talked—and we have a plan B. Besides, New Orleans is nowhere near as far away as New York is to Daytona. All a bitch has to do from here is get across two states. Not ten. Okay, seven.

  I try the door, but it’s locked, so I knock again. “Dreads? Open the damn door. I’m not pissed anymore. I’ll stop screaming at you, okay? Sorry. Hey!” I bang on the door again. “You know I’ve been through fucking hell and back. You can’t really blame me for getting grumpy. Shit, Jacques stays Mr. Grumpy face and no one ever says anything. Everybody just laughs it off—”

  The door flies open and my hair swishes back with the force of it.

  “Whoa,” I mutter, looking up into Dreads’ dead-serious eyes.

  A split second later, his hand crushes the bones of my wrist as his grip encircles it and he rips me into his room. Once I’m over the threshold, the door slams behind us and he lets my wrist go before locking the door and stalking towards the bed, where he begins shoving a bunch of shit into a few small leather bags.

  I’m in the midst of unconsciously rubbing my wrist when I glance around Dreads’ room, noting the major differences. “Are all of Pops”—I stop my words and look back at Dreads—“my father’s hotel rooms different in theme?”

  “Yep. Floors are based on different themes too. This one is nursery rhymes or fairy tales or something.” He shoves the drawer he’s emptied closed and shuffles the socks and the T-shirts to the bed.

  “No, it’s bedtime stories. I saw some of the other rooms as I passed by Maria in the hall cleaning a few. Cinderella, my room. Rapunzel. Jack and the Beanstalk.”