Chapter One
(Chloe)
“Mmm-mmm-mmm. Damn Girl!” a man heckled from across the room with exaggerated cheesiness as I stepped into the biker’s bar.
I jolted, and my breath hitched. There was moment of silence across my side the room as I stood there. Summoning as much dignity as I could, I wiped the tears from my puffy eyes and ran my fingers across my brow to pull the hair out of my face. Soaked through, I was cold, fatigued, and feeling a bit like a shipwreck victim.
I was acutely and uncomfortably aware that I looked a mess. As I stared down at my exposed, pasty body, I discovered to my quiet dismay that my tube-skirt had ridden right up my thighs. When I raised my head, I was hardly reassured to find that - sitting at the two tables ahead of me - at least ten; tattooed, bearded men were eyeing me up and down, approvingly.
Dammit to hell. I just made a total fool of myself.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. A wave of insecurity washed over me leaving me feeling incredibly self-conscious. I half-wondered whether to walk straight back outside and never come back – ever. Tears still running down my cheeks, I took a few deep breaths to try to calm my breathing, and pulled down my skirt. After trying unsuccessfully to compose myself in front of the craning faces, my eyes darted around the room in a mild panic, looking for Jaxson.
A sinking sensation of fear and disappointment overcame me the moment I realized—there were too many damn guys dressed in jeans and motorcycle jackets to find Jax, even if he were around. This thought was followed instantly by a pang of regret. Looking at the drunken people around me, I wondered whether I would find anybody in the place who I could have a sensible conversation with. I shuffled my feet, nervously, not knowing what to do next.
Shit! Just keep it together. Everything is going to be ok.
For some reason, I had it in my head that I would find Jax at the biker’s bar It was every biker’s second home. However, at this early hour, my odds of finding Jaxson Coltrane – Vice President of the Black Devil MC – kicking back during work hours were slim to none. The rub was, my only alternative was to go to his motorcycle club’s clubhouse; a place which justly terrified me. I’d never been inside of the Black Devil’s fortress, but it was known to be strictly off-limits to outsiders, including the club’s own prospects.
When I had ran out of the house, my only viable option was to head to the club’s bar and hope that I could find or get in touch with Jax there.
Only moments before I arrived, it suddenly occurred to me that the bar might not even be open at this early hour. In which case, I would have been stuck—no money, no phone, stranded outside in a skirt and skimpy top in the pouring rain with nowhere to go. As it was, it’d been quite the miracle to find the place at all. Juanita’s, the bikers bar, was more of a shack tucked away behind the town boulevard than a bar. It had the look of an old electricity substation, and the courtyard looked like a perfect site for covert meetings and illegal drug trade.
I had run the whole five blocks from my mother’s house to the bar practically blinded by the downpour. It had just started to rain when I darted out of the house. Soon, tiny bullets of water were beating down on me so hard and so often that I couldn’t see anything, just blurry expanses of pavement and shops. Several young men had catcalled at me from the lowered windows of their warm and dry cars as they cruised past on the main road. I’d been sure the same bus had passed me twice as though it were mocking me for not having used its service. The bus would have gotten me to my destination comfortably and dry in six minutes or less.
Despite the rain and the fact I was utterly drenched, at least I had made it.
Inside, the place gave the impression it’d been left unkempt for the past ten years; the stale odor of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, dimly-lit with ancient furniture that was suggestive of a time long past. Yet, judging by the vast number of eyes facing me at that moment, it seemed to be doing quite well. Perhaps, there was something sentimental about the place that I would simply never understand. The customers stared at me like I was an exotic zoo animal and felt compelled to inspect every part of with wonder.
Privately, I’d always wondered what it was really like in here, and what it was about the place that could make it a biker’s favorite hangout. By my judgement, it could only be the pull of cheap liquor, or possibly its function as a refuge from the harsh world of a nagging wife at home.
The soles of my shoes stuck to the beer-stained plywood floor. Three-by-twos supported the exposed oak beams of the roof forming the bar’s skeleton. The walls were lined with numerous portraits of Black Devil club members from past to present day. Club logos, plaques, and bumper stickers seemed to fill every vertical, flat surface that could be taken. To my right, just by the entrance, was a cigarette machine which was almost out of stock of every type of cigarette it had to offer. A massive sticker was plastered over the cigarette company logo that ran across the top of the machine, with the tag line: ‘Two Wheels Move The Soul.’
The focal point of the space was the front end of a gleaming black Harley Softail that adorned the wall above the bar. It looked like it had just smashed through the concrete from the other side. A wooden, heavily varnished countertop ran along the length of the back wall ahead of me. The mahogany counter of the bar and the Harley looked to be only things in the place that’d been kept polished, and free of a thick coating dust.
A wooden stage sat to the left of the bar. Live blues instrumentalists played 80’s music on poorly tuned instruments; the trio stood behind a shield of chicken wire that stretched from floor to ceiling surrounding the raised platform area. Beer bellied patrons sat on barstools across the stretch of the scarred countertop, tapping their drinks to the music. Airborne musical sounds echoed through the rafters to overcome the barrage of deafening male voices and phlegmy laughter of the customers.
Thirty or so round tables were spread out over the floor; each sat four to six people. The dive was full, and undeniably more intimidating than I would have expected. I could feel my heart thudding in my ribcage as though I’d just run up several flights of stairs. I also knew myself well enough to recognize when my cheeks had flushed to the colour of raspberries, without the aid of a mirror. My pale skin was indeed unforgiving at the best of times, much less in moments of humiliation. Fear induced adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream and trampled on my plan to ask around for Jaxson. A panic stricken freeze over my body prevailed over my will to move, and I found myself standing frozen, blocking the entrance and exit door like a deer in the headlights.
Fuck me. What the hell am I doing?
I had a painful epiphany about the inherent riskiness of my situation, and snapped out of my standstill seconds later.
I had entered the shark tank. Juanita’s was owned by the formidable Bruno De Luca, head of the De Luca crime family of San Diego. The ancient Italian family were known as the Black De Luca’s on account of the notorious history of murder, suicide and terrible rages that the clan seemed to be pray to. Nearly every man in the place was either a hardened outlaw biker, or one of their prospects who was willing to do anything to get into Bruno’s motorcycle club, the Black Devils MC. It wasn’t in these people’s DNA to welcome or respect outsiders, let alone women. Women didn’t belong in motorcycle clubs unless they wanted to be used and cast aside. It was part of the reason why I’d always stayed well away. I knew, in these profound moments of realization, that I had made a mistake. I was twenty-one years old, half the age of most of the guys in the place, and I was stuck here, alone and without backup.
I moved several paces further into the bar to clear the doorway, and found myself sandwiched between two tables. I was surrounded by several more packs of men; every last one of them ogling me all over. I gave an uncomfortable nod to the six men sitting on my left and the five on my right. To my left, one man’s black leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. The white lettering on the back told me that the man knew Jax. The upper rocker of his jacket read: ‘Black Devils Motorcycle Club’. The lower rocker read, ‘Coronado, San Diego’, followed by the word, ‘Spider.’ I assumed Spider was the man’s street name. In the center, was the same logo that could be found on the many stickers and plaques that decorated the bar’s walls. ‘Spider’ was a large, barrel chested man with heavily inked arms and tattoos of spiders that crawled down his neck. I believed that his appearance and street name was probably a reflection of his inner man. He had a fierce and unapproachable demeanour that caused me to give his table a wide birth.
The table ahead of me sat six younger guys who looked to be in their mid-twenties. All of them wore leather jackets without patches or club lettering. At first glance, their appearance seemed to be a conscious effort to adopt the Marlboro man image – strong, macho, and independent. Though, despite their leather jackets, these men exuded the image of diehard hippies. All of them had a free spirited, nonconformist vibe. All of them clearly appeared stoned out of their minds. They seemed to be fairly harmless, but I was sure I wouldn’t get any sensible answers out of them even if they’d seen Jax. I glanced around the bar a second time in the hope that Jax might appear.
No such luck.
As I surveyed the scene, an entirely different trail of thought crossed my mind—not only had my entrance been far more dramatic than I would have liked, but I had arrived to find that I was the only female in this place. Or rather, the only female barring the two platinum-blonde, heavily made-up, slutish bartenders, whose immaculate appearances hardly eased my anxieties. One stood pretty behind the bar pulling pints. The other was flirting at a table with a couple of guys who’d just come in. Goodness knows, how girls like this find the time and energy to work while being cheery and flawlessly made up 24/7.
In the past, I’d always stayed away from the MC’s bar. It was only really a good place to be if you were one of two kinds of people. One, the bikers and their wannabe prospects, and two, the club whores. To all outward appearances, I looked like the latter in my revealing, barely-there clothes. Later on, I had wondered whether my biker groupie like appearance had done me a favor by making me look less of an outsider. Perhaps, it had kept me out of trouble. But bursting into a place like this soaking wet, wearing stripper-like day clothes I’d been trying on for summer, was hardly any strategy for somebody that didn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves.
From behind the long mahogany bar at the back of the room, the barman gave me a pleasant smile, beckoning me over. Although the bar was crammed with people waiting to get drinks, I had caught his eye. He was a solidly built, middle-aged man, and the only male in there who didn’t wear a damn leather biker jacket. Although he was still reasonably intimidating, the barman seemed like the safest looking guy in the place. And the bar looked like the safest place to sit.
As I approached the bar, I could feel the stares burn into my ass from behind from the dozen or so men who clustered around the tables I had to pass. I suppressed the voice inside of me that told me, this really isn’t a good idea. Get out!
“What can I get ya?” the barman asked in a thick, Italian accent.
Exhausted, and still reasonably breathless, I rested my forearms on the counter to take some weight off my feet. I looked up at the barman. My vocal chords felt spent and raw as I struggled even to respond to his question.
His eyes widened, and the warm expression on his face dropped – replaced with one of shock and concern.
I did my best to hold onto my tears, but I certainly wasn’t fooling him that I was ok.
“Sit down,” he said, gesturing with his hand to the free barstool beside me. Like he was reading my mind, he grabbed a tall glass, filled it with water and pushed it toward me.
I sat down on the stool in front of him. My hands shook a little as I picked up the glass and took a large swig. I let out a heavy sigh; my body may have been cold and wet, but the run had left me dehydrated, my throat dry. I put my elbows on the countertop and slumped my chin down on my hands.
The man gazed at me with warm eyes. “Don’t take any notice of those guys. I’m here if you need anything, honey.” He turned around and walked to the other end of the bar to take orders for drinks.
An instant later, a loud and aggressive voice shouted from a table behind me, “I’m gonna fucking kill ya!”
I jumped in my seat. Holy fuck! What the hell was that? I turned to see what the commotion was all about.
The high-pitched chink of glass smashing on the floor alerted the barman, and in what felt like seconds he was out from behind the bar and at the table. He grabbed the perpetrator’s collar—just as he had lunged across his table at another customer. “Oi! Calm the fuck down, or you’ll be out. Do you understand?” the barman shouted as he held the young man up close to his face, in a notably far less warm and friendly tone than he’d shown me a minute ago.
Begrudgingly, the man fell silent and sat back down. As the barman turned and started to walk back to his spot at the bar, the culprit exploded in anger again, as he jumped at his enemy who got swatted into the wall, smashing the plasterboard, and a fierce brawl kicked off…
“I don’t know what you’re fucking going on about!” the man smashed against the wall shouted.
“You owe me two-fucking-grand. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”
The pair couldn’t be any older than I was; they were probably the youngest guys in the bar – and it showed. Baby-faced, slim builds, with scruffy unkempt hair. The angry rebuttal reminded me of why, even before I had so much as crossed the threshold of this place, I always detested and despised it.
“What did I fucking tell you?” the barman rasped, but the brawl continued.
“No, that wasn’t the fucking deal!”
“Fucking give me my money!” the first man barked as he grabbed the other by the collar of his jacket and tossed him onto the pool table behind him with a loud thud.
“I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” the second man insisted.
“I want my money now! Because I swear, I’ll rip your mouth off your face!” the first man sneered.
“You can’t talk to me like that! Fuck off! Fuck off, Zach,” the other snarled.
I watched the first man fly into a violent rage. “I could kill you right now for giving me the same bullshit answer! I swear to god.”
Oh shit, I can’t watch this. Between their violent threats and my dangerously close proximity to them, I was scared-silly.
“That’s it. You’re both out.” The barman, who was easily twice their size, raised his voice above the both of them and everyone around went quiet. There were two hits ‒ one as the barman’s fist hit the guy in stomach ‒ the other, as the man’s body hit the table.
Oh, Lord. What had I gotten myself into here? I lifted my legs to clear the path in case the guy fell off the table.
The barman dragged the pair of them out of the place, one of the two men’s arms in each hand, as they bellowed with rage at each other.
Holy Fuck! Was this normal? Or a special treat just for me?
The third of the bar that had been watching the action then carried on almost instantly, as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. The barman and the locals had clearly seen plenty of bar fights.
I, however, had been left even more noticeably shaken up by the experience. I had no stomach for violence. One drop of blood and I was done. I became instantly lightheaded and my stomach would turn. And my limits had already been tested enough for one day.
Left in peace with my glass of water, and with one little ray of hope of finding Jaxson, I cast an eye over the faces that I could see in the room. Nothing; just as I had expected.
A very cold feeling came over me….
I stared down at my glass with both hands cupped around it, and my mind began to reflect on the events of past hour. I could feel it all welling up inside me, and I wanted to slap myself across the face for being so ignorant.
“How had I not seen this coming?” I said, talking to myself like some sort of madwoman.
Stopping, taking a few minutes to think about what had actually happened, allowed my tears to settle and my anger to rise. It was the lies and betrayal of my mother that hit me the hardest. It wasn’t fair. And it was not right. I’d known my mom’s boyfriend, Roy Harris had always liked a drink, but nothing like I’d seen in the past week. The alcohol had to be the cause of his latest fuck up. I could never have imagined that when I left for college at the age of eighteen, things could have ever got this out of hand. But they had. I would have never left mom with a man like him if I had any such suspicion. It was enough to leave my faith in men ripped to shreds.
Roy and his goddamn addictions deserved to be nothing but a bad memory. First, his obsession had been women, and mom forgave him —over and over again. Secondly, it’d been alcohol. Now, I supposed, it was both. Until I could figure out what to do, I felt confident that mom wasn’t in any immediate danger. I breathed in deep to try to calm my emotions. All I wanted to do was find a phone, call my mother, and tell her to expel that bastard from her life. But I knew I couldn’t do this. I pictured in my mind how happy mom could have been with my father instead.
After my father, Jessie Mariano of the Blood and Bones MC died tragically, a decade ago, Roy Harris stepped into my mother’s life two years later. Short-tempered and stubborn, Roy was far from ideal. But to my mother, he seemed a steady enough guy who gave her the companionship she’d been missing and more importantly, the financial support she so desperately needed. Not that he ever helped her out as much as he would promise. It always gave me a sickening feeling to know that my father had known the guy. Roy ran the automotive repair shop in Tijuana, where most of the guys from the Bloods would get their bikes fixed up. His business was a chilling, and bitter reminder of the MC club that had caused so much loss and pain to me and my mom.
My father had been a patch member of the Bloods MC of Tijuana from the age of 22. My mother had been with him from the start and had seen it all. MCs terrified her. She’d always hated the life but she loved my dad so she stayed in spite of it all. The irony of my father’s death was horrific. He spent his entire adult life protecting his club ‘brothers,’ displaying honor, loyalty and respect to his MC as its founders preached the importance of, so emphatically. Yet, his own club had left him for dead the night he passed. Even I knew that club members were supposed to defend and protect their brothers. But in the end, those guys didn’t know the importance of family.
The very same ‘brotherhood’ which my father was so dearly fond of, had sent him out on a job of an illicit nature, alone – on the night he died. With apparently, no backup, he’d been sent out to the old grain factory, ‘Askeys,’ near the docks. The factory had been derelict for many years, the building’s structure was in a state of decay and disrepair. Askey’s was known to be unstable and most certainly, unsafe. Though the Bloods MC never gave my mother any explanation as to why my father died, what we did know was that the death trap structure of the place caused his death. Part of the damn building collapsed, crushing him down to the basement, and he was gone – forever. The fire department deemed the place too unsafe to even attempt to winch his lifeless body out. In any case, the sheer weight and volume of materials that smashed down would have crushed him beyond recognition anyway. No body. No proper burial. No dignity.
Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. I tried to suppress the horrible images that appeared in my mind of my father being crushed out of existence in less than a moment.
Shoving the horrific thoughts aside, I cast my mind back to my life directly after father’s death. My mother was of course, devastated. To compound her misery, with little prospects of gaining well paid employment, and a young daughter at home, she was forced to work long and exhausting hours at her brother-in laws diner, Mandy’s in Coronado. Two of her weekly shifts ran from 5:30 a.m. to 12 p.m. Back then, I could never understand why she didn’t at least take financial compensation offered to her by the Bloods. Instead, she scrimped and saved to keep us afloat; refusing to take one dime of the Bloods cash, which my mom had termed as, ‘MC blood money.’
Growing up, my mother had warned me to stay away from bikers; but when you lived in Coronado that was nearly impossible. We had moved into town to get away from the Blood and Bones MC in Tijuana, and to be within walking distance of my mother’s job at Mandy’s. We hadn’t moved far, but we were hardly in a financial position to move any further away. At least, we’d managed to distance ourselves from my father’s club. What nobody knew, ten years ago, was that Coronado was about to become home to the Black Devil’s MC. The club would become the richest, most powerful, and most feared gang in America. It was formed and led by the infamous businessman and criminal, Bruno De Luca.
Over the past month, it had seemed like finally, things had taken a sharp turn for the better. I had just about gained my college degree, then Roy and mom – who’d been going steady for eight very long years were – engaged to be married. I could still hear the excitement in my mother’s voice when she’d called me at college to tell me the news. She’d squealed with a giddy-exhilaration as she told me that Roy had proposed the evening before. Mom was elated, and for the first time in a very long while, she seemed genuinely happy. Although, I remember a nagging doubt that crept into my brain like a snake—was it all too good to be true?
It wrenched my very soul to imagine the pain my mom would feel in her heart if I told her what Roy had done. But it was also agony to know that Roy would get away with it. And he would get away with it, since I couldn’t break my mom’s heart. I could never be the one to destroy my own mother’s shot at true happiness. The woman had worked incredibly hard, sacrificing herself for me as I grew up, over the past decade. It was her time to finally enjoy life again. How could I be the one to take that away from her?
I felt a pang of guilt, wishing that I’d never come home to Coronado at all. If I’d taken a job fresh out of college like half of my friends had, I would have moved away and mom would have come to visit. I would’ve had no need to stay with her and Roy and none of this would have happened. I cursed the part of myself that was inherently lazy and wanted to put off getting a job in the spring, so I could have one, last long summer before I allowed the adult world to take me prisoner. Part of me wanted to be gone, or to rewind to a month earlier and make different decisions. Somehow, I would have to handle the fact that I could never tell mom what Roy had done.
I drew a deep breath and took another swig of my water. It enraged me to think back to the incident….I had only been home a week, and the shit head made a pass at me as I stepped out of my bedroom to grab a towel. Roy should have been at work. He thrust me against the wall in a violent attack while mom was out working to pay bills Roy should be paying half of, but never did.
I could still smell his foul alcoholic breath in my face me as he pressed his round, sweaty body against me, pinning me to the wall. Just thinking about it, a surge of adrenaline started to fire up within me as my chest began to tighten with greater and greater intensity as though I were in the early stages of a heart attack. I blinked my eyes repeatedly to try to suppress the tears welling up. I just wanted to go somewhere quiet to cry.
Stop it. Snap out of it. I told myself then Roy’s words rang in my head, ‘I’ll fucking kill you if you step foot in this place again!’
In a blink, I was startled out of my dismal thoughts… “Chloe, how are you? It’s been too long,” a deep male voice greeted me from my right.
God-damn it! Who was this clown? I pictured a middle-aged, drunken reveler; staggering from left to right and about to come onto me.
As I slowly raised my head, with a look of deep disinterest, it struck me as odd that the man had known my name. When I met his eyes, I didn’t need a double take to tell that it was him.
“Jax!” I exhaled heavily in relief. Oh, God, It’s about time! Where have you been?
Jaxson stared at me with his striking green eyes, looking a little perplexed at my appearance. I only hoped he hadn’t watched me humiliate myself in front the whole damn room when I’d first stepped into the bar. I stared back at him and for a split second, I was a little unsure…. How do you greet the best friend you haven’t seen in three years…who was now absolutely gorgeous, in a hard, outlaw biker kind of a way?
Jax was looking very good. His shoulders were broad, muscular and defined I could tell this even through his jacket. The leather jacket was unzipped, revealing a tight white t-shit beneath, which revealed the cascading ripple of his abs down his front. He wasn’t only bigger than I remembered, but he looked a little taller, around 6’2, if that were even possible at his age? Jax still had the same, long, dark-blonde, boyish hair which he swept back with his hand.
I started to lift my arms to hug him as he stepped forward and threw his solid, muscular arms around me. As we embraced, I shut my eyes over his shoulder and inhaled the smell of his cologne from the collar of his soft, leather jacket. His jacket smelled faintly of cigarettes and his own faint scent of sweat, but combined with his cologne in a breath-taking combination that was nearly impossible to describe. All I know is…it was hypnotic. If there were any question in my mind thirty seconds earlier, about whether I wanted a hug or to be left alone to cry, Jax had just shown me the answer.
We kept hold of each other, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the leggy, platinum-blonde barmaid who’d stood behind the bar when I came in, glaring daggers into my eyes as she passed with a tray of empty glasses. But I didn’t care. Jax and I went way back.
Jax’s warm and comforting embrace had calmed me a little but I was still upset and angry at Roy.
“Holy shit, you’re shaking like a leaf Chloe!” Jax exclaimed.
I felt his chest heave against my body as his breathing picked up in deep concern. Jax pulled back from me a little to look down at my face but I kept my arms tightly around him. He looked into my glazed, red eyes just as they started to well into tears. Tears of fear, tears of anger, of relief and of emotional exhaustion all mixed up in one.
I had nothing left—I was physically and mentally drained. A tear rolled down my cheek, and I saw a glint of fury in Jax’s eyes at the sight of it. He’d always been protective and I had learned to hide my emotions at times when I hadn’t wanted him to get involved. This time however, Jax was all I had and I was too fatigued to conceal how I felt. I pursed my lips then exhaled and inhaled deeply, steadily, trying to hold back from descending into full blown tears in ‒ front of the many bikers surrounding us ‒ at the tables and at the bar whose seats were packed into the place.
I rested my head onto his pec and my face touched the inside of his jacket. “I’m so glad I found you here,” I said, my voice muffled by the leather and barley above a whisper through my sobs.
I looked up at Jax and saw the moment when he caught sight of the scratches and bruises on my arms that Roy had given to me. His eyes narrowed, and he looked instantly enraged. He even scared me for a moment. I wasn’t seriously injured, but Jax wouldn’t stand for any man laying a hand on a woman like that. It was just how he was.
“Holy shit Chloe, what the hell happened to you? Was it somebody in this bar?” Jax asked. The fiery a glint of fury still in his eyes.
I wanted to burst into tears, but I wasn’t about to give in to them. The whole emotional episode I was having wasn’t like me at all.
I wanted to tell Jax everything, but I felt overwhelmed. We broke our hold, but I still clutched my right hand around his as though I was scared that he would leave me. Jax squinted is eyes at my lips as I tried to say something. Anything. But still, not sound escaped my lips as they moved.
“You’re safe now, Chloe,” Jax said reassuringly and planted a kiss on my forehead. “It’s ok. I’ve got you. I’ll protect you from who or whatever it was.”
I felt grateful to have Jax around as backup. But it was a bizarre and frightening experience to watch myself become so helpless and dependent on a man. I’d spent the past three years earning my degree and working part time to pay for it myself, so I had achieved the complete opposite of this. Roy’s attack had rendered me weak and powerless, or so I felt.
With my hand in his, he practically had to drag me over to the table next to the radiator. Two thirty-something looking guys jumped up sharply, as we approached the table. It felt wrong, but it was hardly surprising seeing as Jax’s MC owned the joint.
Jax circled the table and took a seat opposite me. I sat down turned in my chair slightly to lean my back against the warmth of the radiator. I took a few more deep breaths and tried to pull myself together enough to speak.
“If you want, we can get out of here?” he asked as he eyed my wet hair and clothes.
I cleared my throat. “No. I’m fine here,” I finally spat out. All I wanted to do was tell Jaxson everything, to tell someone. “H-he tried t-to.” My words caught in my throat. I leaned forward towards him.
Jax leaned forward too.
With one massive breath, I spilled everything in a confidential whisper—worried that if I didn’t tell him now I would lose my courage and never tell a soul, “He came home from work early, and drunk. Again. Mom was out. The next second, he had me pinned against the wall with my arms between his hands. I couldn’t stop it. At least I thought I couldn’t.” I took another breath. “Then, panic took over. It saved me. I kneed him in the balls before he could get my clothes off; soon as he started to double over, I tore myself out of his grasp and flew out of the house, crying as I ran out. I ran and ran, not stopping until I reached the bar. He screamed, yelled, and swore at me. He said he would kill me if I returned. The last thing I saw of him he was still holding his sore balls in his hand.”
“What! Who’s ‘he’? Who did this to you, Chloe? Tell me. Not that guy who’s shacked up with your old lady?” Jaxson’s eyes sparkled with anger as they narrowed on mine. A fire raged in his eyes, as his expression instantly looked fierce and possessive.
With every second that passed, Jaxson’s anger escalated relentlessly; his hand that was resting on the table clenched into a white-knuckled-fist. His hands were balled so tight I was sure he had to be using everything he had to try to control his impulse to go ever there and beat the shit out of Roy.
I nodded, abruptly. “Yeah, it was Roy. My mom is thrilled thinking they’re gonna get married soon.” My lips trembled; my voice soft and quivering like a child.
Jax had a look that told me he wanted to kill Roy. The last thing I needed was Jaxson storming over to my mother’s place to start shit with my wannabe step dad. After all, he had asked my mom to marry him. For my mother’s sake, I told Jax it was the first, and only time, Roy had put a hand on me like that. What I said was half true. At least, I hadn’t thought anything of it in the past.
I know one thing for sure: I’m so done with men. No matter how ruggedly handsome they may be. I promised myself, as I glanced over Jax’s body. It was nothing remarkable to find Jax attractive. Every girl did.
What I needed though was a friend. A friend who could help me out. Jax was the only person I fully trusted. He was also the only guy who I’d gotten close to that hadn’t tried to get into my pants. Unlike the rest of the MC guys around town, he respected women. Even my mom had a soft spot for Jax.
Jax and I had met not long after my father died. He was a regular at Mandy’s, and I would be stuck there every day after school, bored or doing my homework. In those days, he would head straight to the diner after his work at the club, and he would always give me a quarter, so I could entertain myself pinballing. He was still a kid himself back then – at almost eighteen years old, he sure was young to be a full member at an MC. Now at 27, he was actually their vice president. Yes, I knew he’d gotten voted in as VC for the Devils. I heard about it and to be honest, I would ask people in town about him when I came home from school on breaks.
I always thought Jax had felt sorry for mom and me. He always left mom a nice tip after every meal. Funny thing was; despite my mother’s strong objections to anything related to bikes, bikers or their clubs, whenever Jax walked, in my mom’s face would light up and she never minded motorcycle club money when it came from ‘her Jaxson.’ But then, he always had a way of turning on the charm with a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, and warm demeanour that made him absolutely swoon-worthy.
Jax and I would eat dinner and spend part of the evening together every single day. Fortunately, the rest of his MC hardly ever came into Mandy’s as it was more of a family joint. He’d been like a big brother to me. When I left for college, he told me that if I had any problems to call, day or night, and he would come pick me up right away. I thought he’d just grown protective of me, having been friends for so long.
Jax shuffled his chair beside mine and held me against his warm chest. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he pulled me in tighter.
I had to admit, his possessiveness was sexy. It was even sexier when he slipped off his jacket and put it around me. He held me close again, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, with one hand in my hair, and pressed his lips to my forehead. I felt myself start to relax.
“I promise you this, Chloe; I won’t ever let that bastard come near you again.” Jaxson’s eyes fixed on mine reassuringly.
Jaxson always knew exactly what to say.
“You’ll have to come home with me tonight Chloe. You need a place to sleep,” Jaxson said, holding my weary gaze.
All of a sudden, I didn’t feel so calm, and a wave of questions from the rational side of my brain whirled in my mind. What am I doing? He’s a man now, and a biker. He represents everything my mother and I had tried to distance myself from all these years. It was one thing for him to eat dinner with me at Mandy’s when I was a kid, but to stay with him had to be madness, right? Everything those MC men touched ends up spoiled and corrupted.
The only problem was, the less rational of myself had a weakness for Jaxson—a weakness I secretly feared. It sent feelings cascading into my brain that fought back against logic. The longer Jax held me, the more the chaos of the day faded away, leaving me feeling calm and safe. I sighed, wishing it were that easy….
I had a nostalgic view of the past, but I didn’t really know this man. Not anymore. I hadn’t seen the guy in three years. If I left with him, I would go with a near stranger. That MC club would have broken him for sure. I should know better than anyone what those clubs can do to a man. On the other hand, I couldn’t face the prospect of leaving the bar alone tonight. Besides, where would I go?
After stewing on it for a few minutes, I came to a decision. ‘Fuck it. The Jax in front of me felt like the same upstanding guy I had known before.’ I reasoned, as I tried to wipe simmering anxiety from my mind.
I’m cold and wet and not about to spend eighty bucks on a hotel for the night – not that I even have that kind of money to spend. There was no possibility of staying anywhere else tonight. And undoubtedly, I’m safer with Jax than without him?
Jaxson turned to me and smiled, confidently. “You’re coming home with me tonight. You ready?”
Still, I didn’t answer right away. I stared at his eyes, unsure. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse kicked up a notch. Finally, I nodded, as it was too late. Jax had drawn me in with a touch and a voice so gentle, that even my logic had tamed to him. “Yes. It’s been a long day. But just for one night. Deal?” I gave him a nod and offered him a sad smile.
I slipped my arms inside of his jacket that wrapped around my shoulders, it felt warm and comforting as I could smell the hypnotic scent of his cologne even more strongly. For a moment, it was almost as if I could feel his arms wrapped around me. It was both daunting and desirable but I couldn’t decide which feeling I wanted more.
“Deal. One night…” Jax said. He took a final swig of his drink.
Just then, I saw three guys in Black Devil MC jackets stepping into the bar. “Hey, aren’t they some of your friends?”
Jax froze in place, but I didn’t know why. Without warning, he grabbed my arm without another word, threw some bills on the table, and dragged me out of the bar through the back entrance.
“Where are we going?” It felt as though he was trying to hide from them but I couldn’t be sure. Why did Jax just run from his MC Brothers? Unless, perhaps, he was trying to hide me from them.
As we ran out of the place together, I had to wonder whether this was a smart thing to do. I also worried that if Roy knew I was with Jax, he would tear his face off. Roy was a big man, with a violent temper, and he never backed down from a fight. If Jax went over there to have it out with him, it would be bloody suicide.
Outside, we came to a halt in front of his gleaming, black Harley. He thrust a helmet in my direction and mounted his bike. I climbed on behind him and wrapped my hands tight around his waist. Jax turned the headlights on to high beam and fired up the engine. It roared and purred at us. I felt him take a deep breath and his posture relaxed; the rumble of his ride starting up seemed to soothe his anger.
As we raced out of the parking lot, I barely had my helmet on and could feel the cold, wet air fly sideways into my face and sting my bloodshot eyes. The bike roared through the streets and rain pounded down like wet bullets on my body the whole way. I could barely see a thing just like when I had run to the bar, but Jax knew what he was doing. He weaved through traffic. I spent most of the journey with my head over his right shoulder, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.
Truth be told, despite the nasty weather, and the morning I’d had, I actually started to enjoy it.
“Isn’t it great?” Jax asked, as he picked up speed on the main highway.
“Yep,” I replied, simply.
Perhaps it was just the sense of relief of being safe and out of that bar, but the ride felt perfect. I felt free and alive—just Jax, the bike, the open road, and me.