Chapter 5
Ace
I stepped out onto my back porch and sank down into the rickety old chair that had been there for as long as I could remember, when my grandparents had owned the place and I was just a kid. Hell, that had been a fucking long time ago. I was glad that I'd inherited the lakeside property, which was located off a long, dead-end road that you’d swear was leading you out into a marshy swamp. The old Cracker Style home had a wide shade porch along the front and sat on shell and lime pilings. It gave me all the privacy I wanted, surrounded by cypress and moss-draped oaks that were hundreds of years old. It wasn’t unusual to see deer, wild hogs, or other wildlife making their homes around the property. Every so often an alligator would make its way up onto the lawn, but I just ignored it.
I took a sip of coffee and stared out at the huge trees surrounding me and beyond to the water, thinking about the shit that the club was facing. A couple of years ago it had been the Kings MC out of Sanford giving us trouble, but with their president, Wicked, in prison for a ten-year stint, the club had eventually broken up. Now, an MC based out of Georgia had decided to relocate to the area and had already made it known that they wanted us out.
Good fucking luck with that. We were the good guys and had been protecting Daytona for ten years at least. The civilians wanted us there; the cops liked the support we gave. We owned and ran legitimate businesses and were contributing members to the town. Shit, we were the fucking Boy Scouts. If the Hellraisers thought they could run us out of our own town, good fucking luck to them.
Bring it on.
Shit had been too calm around here anyway. Some of my brothers--those who had old ladies and kids--didn't mind the peace. They hadn't grown soft, but their priorities had shifted, and with good reason. If I’d had a family I probably would have wanted the same thing, but as far as I was concerned, that was never going to happen. A family wasn't in my future, not even on the radar. At forty-seven, I was too fucking set in my ways.
Besides, what woman would want a scarred-up old biker?
I'd heard the comments over the years, the ones that had been whispered when they'd thought that I wasn’t listening: Biggest cock I've ever had, too bad about his face; Don't look at him when you're fucking because it will break your concentration; At least when he fucks me from behind I don't have to see his face; You can tell he was hot as fuck once; Oh, my God, he knows what he's doing when he's fucking, but his face! It was the kind of shit that stayed with you. Shallow bitches.
I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I knew that I look like something out of a sci-fi movie, some kind of cyborg with half of his face melted off. Maybe I wasn't that bad, but war had left me with scars all up and down the right side of my body, along with a messed-up leg.
The damage to my psyche was a thousand times worse.
Not every woman had something to say when they thought I couldn't hear. Others revealed their sympathy with looks of pity that damned-near choked me. There were some who got a thrill from being with a biker, but very few of them fucked for the sheer pleasure of it. The more time that passed, the less satisfying sex had become for me, until I'd settled for the occasional blowjob in the alley behind the bar. If I couldn't find a woman who could see past the fucking scars, then I'd leave this world the way I’d come into it--alone.
Emerson's face flashed before my eyes. I clenched my back jaw. She was a sweet girl, and fucking beautiful even though I knew that she didn't know it. She was a natural beauty, and used very little makeup to enhance it. She wore a lip gloss that made me want to lick and bite those full, fuckable lips every time I saw her. But I didn't give in, and pushed the thought aside while satisfying myself with the sight of her mouth wrapped around my dick instead.
I’d convinced myself that that was all I wanted from her.
She was a good woman, and I was ashamed of myself for using her in the way that I was. The first time I'd taken her out behind the bar had been a fluke. The woman I'd met earlier that night had passed out drunk before the deed could be done. It had been late, the bar was closing up, and I'd looked around to find Emerson wiping down the bar, humming and blissfully ignorant of what was going on around her. I'd made arrangements for a cab to take the passed out woman home, still hornier than hell and resigned that I would have to rub one off later.
But then Emerson had said those fateful words. "Do you need anything, Ace?"
Her sweet smile had clinched it, and I'd grabbed her hand. Fucking her the one time wouldn't hurt anyone, and I’d needed relief. Tanner would be mad as hell when he found out, because he didn't like us messing around with his employees unless they were the strippers, but that hadn’t stopped me from pushing the back door open. Most of us in the Sentinels had a steadfast rule that we didn't fuck a woman more than once, until we did, and then realized the hard way that we'd met the one woman that we couldn't live without.
I'd wanted to fuck Emerson that night, but something had stopped me when she'd turned around and blinked up at me with those big, fucking doe eyes. Fear that I wouldn't have been able to apply my “hit it and quit it” rule for her had nearly paralyzed me. I'd stood staring at her fresh beauty, at the question in her eyes and the gloss staining her parted lips, and I'd pushed her to her knees and hadn't stopped pushing. I'd gone back for more until we'd fallen into an unspoken, one-sided relationship that was more predictable than it was mutually satisfying.
And what had I fucking done for her?
Not a damned thing other than toss money at her as if she were a whore. Still, she had never said no, she’d never refused me, she’d never complained. She always took the money, and I'd convinced myself that maybe she had a little side job on top of working at the bar. She wouldn't be the first woman to earn a little extra cash in exchange for sex.
The front door opened behind me, and I turned to see Mrs. Bearden, my housekeeper, step outside. She'd been coming once a week for the last five years to do light cleaning for me. She showed up like clockwork, had her routine down to the minute, and always left me with something for dinner.
"I've put a load in the washer for you." She always did right before leaving. "And I made you a meatloaf. All you have to do is pop it into the oven for about forty minutes on three-fifty."
I smiled up at her. "Thanks." I noticed that she was wringing her hands, a nervous gesture of hers that I recognized. She had something to say. "Something wrong, Mrs. Bearden?" I set my empty coffee cup down and dug out my smokes.
Her mouth turned down, and a look of resignation came over her slightly wrinkled face. "Yes. I'm afraid this is going to have to be my last day, dear. My husband's not doing too well getting around these days, and it looks as if he's going to need me twenty-four-seven."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I'd never met her husband, but I knew that he'd had health issues for as long as she'd been cleaning for me. Since she was in her sixties, I assumed that he had to be as well.
"Yes, well, it's been coming." Her smile did nothing to smooth out the wrinkles in her face. "He's ten years older than me and ever since his bout with cancer; he's never been completely one hundred percent again." A big sigh escaped her. "Comes with old age," she laughed. "I'm sorry for such short notice."
"Don't worry about it." There were plenty of girls at After Hours; one of them was bound to need some extra cash.
She made a tisking sound. "I do worry about you," she said surprising me. "Living out here all alone, riding around town in that biker gang that you belong to, drinking and smoking . . ." She made a point of raising her eyes to the cigarette that I slipped between my lips. "You need to meet a nice lady and have some babies."
I knew that she meant well. "Someday," I said, to avoid anything more on the subject. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Need any repairs at your place?"
Tears brightened her blue eyes. "Oh, that's so sweet of you! But nothing that I can think of now."
"Well, you let me know if something comes up."
"I sure will." She released another breath. "Would you like me to try and find someone to replace me?"
I shook my head, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Not worried about it. I'll find someone sooner or later. Thank you for your years of service." I decided right then to mail her an extra check that would cover her salary for the next year. If she was giving up cleaning my house, it was a given that she'd be giving up her other clients as well. She could probably use the extra cash.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her head bobbing. "It was a joy. I don't mind giving up my other jobs, but I'm going to miss coming here. Well, guess I better get going. I have a neighbor staying with Stan while I'm gone today."
"Thanks again," I said. I listened to the sounds of her leaving the house, and then her car starting up.
Eventually I was left with the peace and quiet that surrounded my home. When I was done with my smoke I flicked it out into the dirt, watching it spark before it died out. I should give up the habit. Hell, I had a lot of vises that I should cut back on. I drank too damned much, especially when I let the darkness in and hoped that alcohol would chase away the demons. I smoked, and fucked. Other than those vices, the only consistency I had in my life was breathing.
I snorted. I supposed that was how life went for a lot of us. We all had demons inside us, waiting to show up, waiting to destroy us. Mine were near the surface, trying to claw their way out and claim what was left of my fucking soul. I'd returned home from the service bitter and angry. I recognized it, but controlling it was another matter.
Harder still was seeing it every day when I looked in the mirror.