A Lil' Less Hopeless (14 page)

Vicky applies some sort of lip liner to her pout, using the ceiling mirrors to guide her reflection. “You would think so, right? Only one guy ever underestimated me.” Her head tilted back at an unnatural angle to watch the makeup application above. “Let's just say he's not breathing to tell the tale or do it again.”

Fuck. That was way to easy. Is it enough, though? I don't want to mess this up, too many people are counting on me. I need more. “Wow, good for you. Did you get locked up?”

Vicky smacks her fuck-me red lips together loudly. “Nah... some poor sucker took the fall.”

“Really? And they still let you work here? I would have thought something like that would make you want to get out of here pronto, not risk something getting shaken up.”

Vicky smoothes some lotion into her legs. “It's far away from here. A done deal.”

I take a handful of the lotion myself and rub it into my own bare legs to calm my shaky, jittery hands. “That's good, I guess. How far away was it?

“You sure ask a lot of questions. You should know better than to get in people's business.” She eyes me suspiciously. Crap. I need to change the subject, like now.

As I think of a new, safe topic, the buzzing of my cell phone jumping across the floor breaks the sudden silence. I close my eyes tight. Fuck.

“What's that?' Vicky looks past me to try to see where the offending sound is coming from.

I move to block her view. “Uh, nothing.”

The phone continues to vibrate as the incoming call notification continues. Double fuck.

“Is that a phone? You're not allowed to have a phone in here. Who are you?” She's onto me.

“Chris!” I scream out. I manage to get the word out completely, in my loudest voice before she grabs hold of me and starts to claw at my skin. “Chris! Help!” I call out again.

The door crashes in, with Chris rushing to tackle the glamazon with her hands around my neck. He pushes her off me. The lack of oxygen has made my vision hazy and I cough dry air into my lungs. The damage was done, though, and I feel the sleepiness taking over. I slump over, giving in to the overwhelming urge to close my eyes.

LILS

“Hey, momma!” Sunny calls to me as she and Tiny enter the clubhouse, carrying trays of food. “Where can we put all this?”

I swivel around, my slightly protruding belly pressing against the thin fabric of my shirt. I struggle to get up, my newfound weight altering my sense of balance. “Hey, guys! You can just take it into the kitchen. Jean’s sorting through everything.”

I reach Sunny and give her a peck on the cheek. My attempt to unhand her platter of sandwiches to help lighten her load is thwarted by my quick-acting brother.

“Don't you dare. No heavy lifting.” He shouts out to the new prospect behind the bar. “Hey, Shoop. Make yourself useful and get your ass over here and give my lady a hand. You gonna let a pregnant lady step up and do what your sorry ass is supposed to?”

“Ah, shit. Sorry Lil’s,” Shoop throws his bar towel over his shoulder and scurries over to take Sunny's items from her. Poor guy. He's barely a few months into prospecting, but they haven't let up at all. He's in for a long ride.

Sunny gratefully hands over the food, freeing her hands to rest on my midsection and give a rub. “Hey, baby!” She calls into my belly. “Are you ready for your first club cookout?”

I laugh. We're both ready. It's been a quiet two months since all of the craziness, but this is the first real get-together since. Tiny hands his own packages over to another prospect who runs up behind Shoop, and he wraps his arms around both Sunny and me, turning us in the direction of the door to the yard.

“So Lil's. Where's Jay?” my big brother asks.

“He's manning the grill,” I divulge my husband’s whereabouts.

Tiny laughs deep, a full belly laugh. “Oh great. We'll be having hockey pucks for burgers.”

The yard is full of Kingsmen, ol' ladies and families. Music is blaring and there are even a few games going on. Volleyball, horseshoes. It's a standard, run-of-the-mill family cookout.

“Hey, Jay, let's keep it edible, eh?” Tiny calls out, heading over to help his best friend. Jay promptly replies by sticking his middle finger up. Tiny laughs, while grabbing Jay's beer and taking a swig. “Let's just hope your son can work a grill better than his old man one day.”

I reach the exchange of brotherly love. Jay promptly sets down his cooking utensils and moves to place himself behind me, wrapping his arms around and resting them, splayed over my bump. I lean back against the rock-hard chiseled wall. This is my man. “My
daughter
will never have to work a grill,” he informs the soon-to-be uncle.

I speak up, defending the tiny being in my womb. “But, if
she
wanted to... she could.”

With every fiber of my being, I can feel Jay rolling his eyes behind me. “Yes, Lil's. He or she can do whatever they want to.”

I nod my head in agreement. An incoming car grabs our attention.

“Jess!” I call out. She honks her horn in greeting. Jess hadn't been able to give me a definite confirmation of whether she'd be able to make it today. The new semester had started up, and I know she's swamped with coursework, just as I am.

“Hey, Jules!” She rushes to embrace me. My belly has popped a little since seeing her last, at Vicky's sentencing. Even though she took a plea deal in exchange for offering testimony against the pimp she was working for, and Jessica was spared the embarrassment of having to testify, she still wanted to watch the sentence be handed down. She was almost as happy as we were when Vicky was given twelve years for manslaughter.

I suspect it also had a little something to do with her boyfriend, Special Agent Christopher Gibson, being the media darling and given full credit, including a promotion for cracking not one, but both, cases.

“Oh my God, I swear you've gotten bigger, Jules.” She laughs as she pats my middle.

I shake my head. “Yeah... my boobs aren't the only things growing anymore. So... how's Pretty Boy?”

She gives me a look. “You
know
I don't like that name, Jules.”

I surrender, hands up. “I know... I'm just joking.”

We walk back toward the rest of the group. “He's good, just busy. I barely get to see him these days with his new promotion, and all.”

I hug her close. I know the feeling. Jay's made a really big effort to stay close to home these last few months, but I can remember a time not long ago when things were different. When he'd be gone for days or weeks on end for club business.

I offer whatever words of wisdom I can. “If he's a good man, Jess, and I think he is... stick around. Don't give up so easily. Take it from me.”

I watch as Jay laughs with his friends, our family. My eyes soften as I watch my my husband with a new sense of appreciativeness. He's mine. He's always been mine. There have been times when I've given up too easily, broken by my own fear, lost without him and hopeless about living without the one thing I needed. It's him, it's always been him. And I am never letting go again. As if sensing my thoughts, in tune to my own, he turns toward me and winks. A thrill courses through me, the type only he can deliver... with as little as just a look. He asked me a long time ago, in the beginning, if I was his girl. Truth be told, I was always his girl. And I always will be.

******

CHARLIE

I take once last glance at my reflection and give myself final approval. I'm ready. Grabbing my keys and handbag from the dresser top, I exit my house and lock the door behind me. The roaring ignition of the Harley in my driveway revs a few times before I get to it. I take my helmet from Clink and swing my leg around, settling in close.

“You ready, baby?” Clink asks.

It's a complicated question. Was I ready? Am I ready to make the step and stand by this man officially? Things had taken such a turn, and I've ended up in a place far from the reason that brought me here. These people that I came here to ruin, came to destroy, have become my family. They embraced me in a way I never thought possible. I'm not sure why I did what I did. The day Lil's called and asked me for help, I could have just as easily said no, left Jay and the club to their own devices. Lord knows, it would have served my original purpose.

Helping Lil's had a ripple effect, though. The club now considers me one of their own, having proved myself and my loyalty to them. Whatever it was between Clink and me, changed once again. He looks at me with a newfound light in his eyes. It's not something I was looking for, but it's something I've come to find comforting, something I won't part with easily.

The engine hums beneath my legs. I hold closer to Clink, pressing my body to him. This man, this family that I expected nothing from, surprised me by giving me the one thing I deeply needed. The one thing I convinced myself a long time ago that I could live without. Belonging. I belong here.

Now that I've accepted the hard truth, I won't risk losing it. If it ever came out... was ever discovered who I really am or why I really came here, I could lose it all. They would never trust me again, the betrayal too deep.

I have only one choice, to hide the truth no matter the cost. To keep this family, this man. I lean forward and whisper near his ear. “Faster....”

JAY AND LIL'S EPIC LOVE STORY IS THE

BEGINNING IN THE KINGSMEN MC SERIES.

NEXT... GET TO KNOW CLINK AND CHARLIE

A LITTLE BETTER.

IS HE CAPABLE OF LOVING HER?...

WHO IS SHE, AND WHAT IS SHE HIDING?

GET ALL OF THE ANSWERS,

AS WELL AS A GLIMPSE AT ALL

YOUR FAVORITE KINGSMEN

IN BOOK #4 OF THE KINGSMEN MC SERIES

“
BITTER SWEET DECEPTION”

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FEBRUARY 18, 2015

CONTINUE READING FOR A SNEAK PEAK AT

BABY V

TARA OAKES' VERY FIRST STAND ALONE

FULL LENGTH NOVEL

BABY V

*
This material, whether in part, or in its entirety is copyrighted by Tara Oakes and not meant to be shared, duplicated, or used in any manner without direct permission from the author herself.

MAY

The church bells finally finish chiming, but I can still feel their metallic vibrations coursing through me. At least I will
never
have to hear those god awful bells again. Ever. Four years of listening to the slightly off beat tolls have been enough to drive me to loathe them on more than one occasion. In the beginning, they were charming... that lasted all of a week. Soon after, I could sense the daily noon ringing like a well tuned internal alarm clock... as it usually meant that I was late for class. If I was
really
lucky, it only meant that my rare but desperately needed afternoon nap was about to be interrupted. I knew I wasn't alone in my lack of affection for the old bells, because whenever anyone referred to them, it was always as the “damn bells.”

I look around at all of the other girls lined up with me and wondered if any of them were thinking the same thing about that last ringing. It was just another one of those “last” memories we would all share before graduation. Our last exam, last night in our outdated but charming dorm rooms, last assembly line-styled breakfast, and our last days as students at St. Bart's. Until today, we had all been heading down the same path. In about two hours, we would splinter away into a hundred or so different ones.

“Well, do I?”

I snap out of my daze with a confused “Hmm?” to my right.

“V... do I look like I have too much lipstick on? I want to be able to see my lips in the pictures, but not to look like a cheap pin up doll. Christy says I have too much on. I don't think I have too much on. Do I
really
have too much on?” And this was the last time I would have to listen to Katherine Lang ask me one of her mind numbing questions.

“No. It's not too much. The photographers are like ten feet away from the stage and I don't think they're taking close up shots.” I really had no idea what kind of photos they were going to take, but I probably wouldn't have worn as much of the pale pink lip lacquer that the petite blond slathered on herself.

Thanks to the inescapable alphabetizing of last names, I had to endure random questions like this for the last four years. I look down the line of endless burgundy gowns toward the coveted “T” section of the group with envy. Stephanie catches me eyes, giving me an overly enthusiastic and sarcastic thumbs up.

I would give anything to change my name right now. Nothing too crazy... something generic like Tate or Thatcher would do. But
nooo
. I'm a Lombardi and stuck with the “L”s for just under two more hours. I hope.

I don't think this could last longer than that. Father Cross is known to give a long winded Sunday morning sermon but even he wouldn't want to stand out here in the blazing sun any longer than he had to.

Before I can finish rationalizing the merits against a drawn out graduation day, the familiar orchestrated beginning of “Pomp and Circumstance” begin to play loudly. Taking a deep breath, I follow Katherine's lead toward the stairs to the newly erected stage. As I grab hold of the bannister, I stand tall on my toes to try and see out into the crowd.

Hundreds of happy faces and flashing cameras are staring back toward us. Quickly glancing over the waiving children, pointing parents, and people fanning themselves with folded programs, I scan for the large group of familiar faces that are waiting to see me take a seat behind the podium. I am about to give up and turn my attention toward the last step, when I find what I am looking for. A dozen or so adults and a gaggle of little kids all with the same light olive skin and dark brown hair as mine stand out against the background.

I smile, knowing that my family is beaming looks of pride in my general direction. Concentrating on the task at hand, I carefully walk halfway across the stage to my assigned seat, sitting as gracefully as I can. Mission accomplished. The last thing I need, is to trip over my tent of a graduation gown and fall flat on my face before my brothers. They would never let me live it down.

The sun beats down on us like a fry lamp at any given fast food establishment. Our gazes respectfully aim toward the back of Father Cross' head, but I'm sure I'm not the only stealing glances of their personal group of fans every few minutes.

Mine is probably one of the larger ones. Sister Mary Francis wasn't happy when I handed in my seat count for the ceremony. I'm sure she would have told me to trim it a bit, but held her tongue thinking about the amount of zero's on my family's endowment check to the school every year.

Most of them are here today. Well, the ones living on this side of the Atlantic, anyway. Mom, Nona, Aunt Rosie, my brother's with their wives and kids. And Theresa and Dom. I take inventory of each of them as I check them off my mental family list. Then I notice it.

“Miss Katherine Lang”

Father Cross turns slightly toward us as Kate gently squeezes my hand before getting up to receive her diploma. I smile and nod in return... chuckling a little when I notice the pink smear on her left hand. She had decided to remove some of her war paint before having her perfect smile immortalized for her graduation pictures. Smart move.

I quickly move my attention back to my group of troublemakers starting to share collaborative looks between one another as they sit up in preparation.

This is
not
good. If the four of them were communicating through silent glances and nodding with little smirks thrown in, that means they are all thinking somewhere along the same line. I'm on the receiving end of that line of thinking more times than I care to recall.

The applause is loud but polite for Kate. Her family made the expected cheers with her name being added to phrases such as, “Go Kate!,” “That's my sister,” and “Yay Katie!” Perfectly fine, tasteful and acceptable.

She grasps her diploma and faces the small group of men with wide angle lenses stationed below the stage, and I can imagine her flashing the megawatt but slightly plastic smile she is famous for. It's the same smile she gives everybody, every time, exactly the same. I'm sure it was perfected somewhere around thirteen years old in the company of her vanity mirror. Lipstick was probably added somewhere around her sweet sixteen for dramatic effect.

The applause dies down while Father Cross angles himself back towards the microphone perched on top of the podium.

“Miss Vincenza Maria Lombardi.”

I hold my breath and stand up, preparing for the noise.

I lock eyes with Father Cross, steadily heading in his direction. I have tunnel vision.
Just concentrate on reaching the podium and take my diploma when he hands it to me.
This is all I can think of to drown out the spectacle starting to erupt about ten rows deep into the crowd.

My eyes do not budge from that diploma as it nears. The last thing I need to do is to give them a reaction. I've learned the hard way, over too many years, that if they see the slightest bit of frustration or acknowledgement... then it just carries on longer.

Father Cross, headmaster of St. Bartholomew's Women's University, looks like a deer caught in headlights almost instantly. I'll bet he's never had this happen in the twenty plus years he's given that drawn out commencement speech, handing out these leather bound diploma's. I can't ignore the touch of irony in the situation, though.

Here stands the man, who time and time again, refused to change the outdated school curriculum after countless petitions and student senate meetings.

Finishing and Etiquette courses are mandatory, no matter what degree you were completing. After all, St. Bart's is well known to be one of the finest (and few remaining) institutions, where the daughters of the upper crust can be educated in all things proper and polished.

With families like this seeking out their services, why would they change protocol? It wasn't like the students were paying the bills or granting the ostentatious endowments. The families are, and the last thing Father Cross would let happen on his watch, would be for the benefactors to suddenly loose faith in his archaic and traditional policies.

And yet here we are, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in May, enjoying the fruits of his labor... while the wealthiest, most financially generous family that this school had likely ever seen is making a scene the likes of which St. Bart's gentry have never witnessed.

A very small, crooked smile is fighting through all my efforts to suppress it. It is the same type of smile this man has given me every time I presented him with the school year's newest petition to no longer mandate trivial classes such as, “Traditional dance,” “Entertaining,” and “Social graces.”

I extend my right hand out toward the deep burgundy leather portfolio he is grasping, and my left hand to take his salutary greeting. Widening into a full smile, I turn in the direction of the photographers below, and the clicking sounds begin. His palm is sweaty, but cold. Weird and gross at the same time.

My peripheral vision begs my attention. They're on their feet now. Hands in the air, pumping. Fingers are cupped around mouths to project the hooting and hollering further, louder. My little nephew Johnny is being held up in the air to add his own voice to the mix of calls being shouted my way.

WAIT. There's a sign. Fuck. Really? A sign? I can't resist the urge any longer, and stare full force in their general direction, taking in the entirety of it.

Mike, the youngest and most mischievous of my three older brothers, and most likely the ring leader of today's affair, was holding up a rather large white cardboard sign. Professional lettering sprawled across it... huge letters shining and sparkling in the bright sunlight.

WAY TO GO BABY V!

The blood rushes to my face, before I can try and contain it. Mike is waving the sign back and forth, slowly, while doing his best impersonation of a rabid sports fan. His brown hair flops around from the sudden motion of jumping up from his seat. He sees me watching him and adds a nodding motion to his yelling.

John is next to him, holding little Johnny high above the crowd. Pure glee is painted across Johnny’s (“JJ” as only I call him) round little face. As the eldest of my brothers, and head of our family, John should know better than to encourage the next generation to jump on the “Baby V” bandwagon. Angry as I am with him, I can't help but notice the look of pride on John, as he holds his first born and only son up to watch me receive my degree.

Tony is next down the line of men making fools of themselves. His perfectly gelled coif and artificial tan stand out among the crowd of W.A.S.P.y alabaster complexions. The Jersey Shore has nothing on my brother Tony. He is suave to a fault and a killer lady's man. My inner Gloria Steinem is itching to add the phrase “man slut” to the mix, but tony has a heart of gold and has never treated a woman badly. He treated them well in fact...
ALL
of them. But... he's a tamed man now and married faithfully for over a year.

Tony is so excited and laughing hard enough that he practically doubles over. Dom is slapping him on the back while laughing himself. Dom. Gorgeous Dom with dreamy eyes. Tony was a ladies man, but he was just a wingman compared to Dom.

Dom can have any girl he wants... and probably has. Growing up, all of my friends swooned over him like flies on ice cream, and he loved every bit of it. Domenico is not a blood brother to me, like the other three... but close enough that I never hesitate adding him to their collective title. They are simply, “The brothers.”

Dom's eyes lock with mine long enough to see his famous grin and sly smile, before he adds the loudest boast yet to the ordeal.

“Way to go, Baby V! Bring it on home!”

Before he can finish as enthusiastically as he started, Theresa elbows him hard enough to ensure there isn't a follow up. That's my girl! Although Theresa is Dom's younger sister, she always has my back. Growing up the only two girls in our family, we have an unspoken allegiance to each other.

Theresa has had her share of the boys' antics growing up...but, as the baby of the group, I bare the brunt of it.

Dom pretends to be injured, cowering away from his little sister, while she returns her attention my way and politely claps... just as I had done at her own graduation ceremony last year.

The two were quite a pair. For however handsome Dom is, Theresa is equally beautiful with her huge almond eyes, and long, wavy blown out hair. She is the closest thing to a sister as I'm sure I'll ever find.

After the full five-second time frame perfected during countless hours of graduation rehearsal, I turn again to Father Cross. His lip quivers a little bit in restrained anger as he issues his standard well rehearsed words of wisdom.

“Congratulations my child... and god bless you.”

Simple. Sweet. And probably more than a little difficult for him to say at the moment.

*

In a matter of moments, the great laws has been transformed into a sea of chaos as relatives and friends swarm around in search of their particular graduate. It probably doesn't help much that we are all dressed in the same identical burgundy ceremonial gown. Twice now, someone has grabbed on to me only to find that I am not exactly who they were expecting.