If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (16 page)

However, because I’m a gentleman—don’t laugh. Don’t think I can’t hear you snicker. I do the gentlemanly thing, and go by there once a week to pull the trash to the front, mow the grass if it needs it—or any other odd end handyman job that may need to be done. And I don’t do it for her out of anything other than history. I did it for her old man when he lived at the house as a prospect, and when he moved into the compound, I never stopped.

This could possibly be adding fuel to whatever burning eternal flame Roxy has for me, and as much as I understand that, what you don’t understand is—this shit’s been burning for a looong time. And there’re some fires that are just best left alone. Let ‘em burn that shit out. It’s all ashes to ashes and dust to dust in the end.

When I pull my bike up the drive, I don’t see anyone at first because her house is one of them you have to damn near completely circle before you hit the garage in the back. So I’m a little caught off guard when I pull in and see Ben’s bike saddled up next to Rox’s Jeep.

“Huh,” I mutter, pulling the helmet off my head before tugging the black bandana down to where it's tied around the back of my neck. I glance down and see the toe of my boot crushing some tulips. I frown before glancing around the yard.

The whole bitch has been landscaped! Like fresh mulch and fucking annuals, or whatever. Flowers. My eyes skip back to Ben’s blue bike and narrow before I smirk.

Didn’t even know the sly bastard was gonna be in town… Well, look at him. And Rox?

I chuckle, taking the front steps two at a time before rapping my knuckles with ‘FUCK’ tattooed across them against the front door. When my fists are side by side, my knuckles spell out FUCK YEAH. Don’t ask. Dreads has an ink gun, and sometimes we have too much damn idle time.
This could help me,
I think.
As much as it could possibly hurt me.

How, you may ask. Well, I’ll tell you.

See, unlike my cousin, who has an attention span of a damn goldfish—when the shit went down with Pops the night of the rally, Ben actually forgot. Like, forgot
forgot
about whatever happened with Ilsa’s kid daughter. He’s been around that chick twice in the last six months, so I know he ain’t forgot about her. Luckily, just the part about me
possibly
fucking her. Which, between you and me, I’ve made my peace with. Made my peace with it that morning, actually. And once I make my peace with something, it’s done. Never happened.

I go to mass. I go to confession. Every Sunday—as did my mother. And that won’t change. And as far as I’m concerned, if it’s good with God then it’s well with my soul and it never happened—I’ve been forgiven by the blood of Jesus Christ.

A-motherfuckin’-men.

“Ay!” I knock again when I hear a scuffle, or what sounds like one...hint, hint. “Ben, I’m not mad, brother. Don’t try to go out of the window and fucking kill yourself either, man. Rox, tell him! Jesus Christ, woman. We are not together! Ben! Ben!” I bang on the door harder when an idea strikes, and then decide, fuck it. I’ve seen what Roxy has, and I’m sure whatever Ben has, mine looks close enough (well, I mean, I’m sure it’s not ten and a half. Okay, ten.) “Ask me if she’s shaved or bare.” I slap my hand over my eyes as I hold my other hand out and walk blindly into Roxy’s house. “Rox, cover your shit up, girl. Ask, Ben. Bare or shaved!”

“Jacques, what? What are you fucking doing here?” I uncover my eyes, glance at where Rox is, roll them at her for acting so goddamn offended, and then glance to where Ben is—frozen, mid-stride towards the window. During all of this, I have noted Rox has on pants, so there’s no way I could know he’s here. He knows I haven’t seen. When Ben’s eyes meet mine, I make my case. “Couldn’t fucking tell you.” I hold my hands up. “Haven’t seen it in three years.”

When he nods, Roxy opens her dumbass mouth. “It’s bare. I could’ve shaved this morning.”

“Right, and how does that make any sense? What the hell does it matter? The bottom line is this—Ben, please, feel free to fuck Roxy. I’m not. Roxy, for the love of God, let Ben fuck me out of you, okay? It’s really best for everyone in the long run, sweetie. And hey, you’ll always have my virginity.” I smile at her before she cuts her eyes at mine.

“That wasn’t me.”

Oops.

“Wasn’t? Really? Oh shit, I thought all this time.” I laugh then head to the fridge for a Bud Light before pulling one out. “You cool, man?” I look over my shoulder and I’m relieved the bastard’s not acting as spooked. He nods. “Cool. How long you in town for?” I pull a swig from my Bud.

“This weekend. I was actually about to head to the club. What’s up here?” He looks between Rox and me.

And again, I slightly raise my hands. “Nothing more than tradition, man. Sgt. At Arms’ yard still needs mowed. Even if he don’t live there.” I nod and smile at Rox. “Plus it helps this one out.”

Raising both hands, I grab the top of the door frame with one, and lean my weight on it, before stretching forward, trying to pull out some of the knots forming in my shoulders and back. “Like what y’all done to the yard, Rox. It’s nice.”

“Thanks. Ben did it. Wasn’t that nice?”

Yeah. Kinda what I just fucking said.

After I bullshit with Ben for a little while longer, I say my goodbyes to him and the newly eager to be rid of me Rox. And I gotta say, it wasn’t as bad as I always thought it’d be. Just one less yard I have to mow. Pun...hahaha. You decide if the pun was intended.

***

It was just another night. I’d just finished the books and was headed to the steeple to put them in the safe before Pops locked up the petty cash when about ten bikes pulled up in the boneyard.

No colors. All black bikes, all black leather. Not a single cut or patch to be seen.

However, I saw none of this. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see a single goddamn thing. I did hear something, though. I heard a voice I’d never heard before call my name. “Jacques Cain?”

And to tell you the truth, I can’t even recall looking up. I was walking across the yard, books hooked under my left arm, making my way to Pops’ office.

Then...nothing. Everything. Fuck if I know what to call it. But it happened.

Three shots rang out.

Hitting me. Twice in the chest, and once in the gut.

Then nite-nite, mothafucker. My shit went dark.

Present Day:

I’d been stuck in the same dead end job at Charming Charlie’s Exotic Club as a waitress for the last seven years when the shitty but happy life Grams and I built for ourselves over the last few years crumbled apart. And that was two years ago.

It’s not easy, in case you were wondering. It’s not easy restarting your life over and over. And to be completely honest with you, I haven’t decided to start again. Not yet.

Don’t judge over it lasting me two damn years, either. How many times have you been in attendance to this feeling in your life? Hmm? It can’t be natural for a person to start over as many times as I have in one lifetime. It can’t. So hold off on any hypocriticalness you may have. This story isn’t over—it’s nowhere fucking near it, actually.

I throw my car keys on the table in the foyer after kicking my Chucks off next to the front door, and sigh when the motorcycles that’ve been pulling into town since Thursday pass. Slowly I breathe in before letting the breath back out and only then am I able to relax enough to allow the feeling of home to finally begin to settle in.

Leaving the lights off in the house, I make my way through the main room and back down the hallway. After passing Grams’ closed bedroom door on the left, I squeeze my eyes closed then take the right down the hall and flip on my bedroom lights before tossing my bag on my bed. Light floods the room with nothing more than the soft twenty-five watts I keep plugged into most of my fixtures. Grams and I decided when we moved in that we didn’t need much in the way of light as the entire backside of our little cottage on the beach is made of nothing but windows. A smile breaks out across my face for the first time in days as I open the back double doors overlooking our little...I mean
my,
little stretch of beach. A frown replaces my smile as I realize I’m lighting the last cigarette from my pack. Then I curse before throwing the empty box in the trash bin on the back porch that connects before wrapping the rest of the way around the house. And if you mention the fact that my hands seem to look as though they begin to shake when another group of bikes drive by, I’ll choke the words off before they can leave your mouth. So help me, God.

Other than the few hundred bikes that drove through here almost a week after Grams and I pulled off the highway and into the place we would be calling home ‘til… I haven’t seen a single bike that belongs to any MC clubs, other than the ones from around here.

And I won’t lie...it made me nervous. While Grams and I were unpacking when we first moved in, and there were more bikers driving into town directly passing the front of our house than boxes being unloaded from the moving truck. But thankfully, they must have been just driving through because after that, I don’t think I’ve even seen another red and black crucifix symbol on a bike. Unless of course it’s Daytona’s Bike Week. Which is
this week.
But that’s a completely different story. With upwards of five-hundred thousand bikes, there’s bound to be a few with the same symbol or emblem that Jacques Cain wears on his back, right?

With the cigarette still lit, and Grams would roll over in her grave for it, I quickly tiptoe through my room to the bathroom connected, and turn on the hot water of the shower. Then I book it back outside to the porch and smoke, waiting for my shower water to get hot.

I’m halfway finished with my cigarette when my phone rings. “Shit! Ty!” I curse, because I forgot to call him again and let him know I made it home from work okay.

I know, it’s pathetic. But what’s a girl to do?

I’m certainly not going to bitch about being the only problem my gay friend has. It’s his problem, not mine. After grabbing my phone from my bag where I tossed it on the bed, I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Hey, Bae. Sorry! I was just about to call—”

“No you fucking weren’t, Eve Of’May O’Malley. Go tell that shit to someone who doesn’t know you. Are you home?” he asks, and I hear his hand cover the phone. “No, it’s alright. Just give me a minute, Dave.”

“Yes, Father. I’m home.” I chuckle, stubbing out my cigarette. “Thank you for checking on me.” I make my way inside, stripping small layer after small layer of my ridiculous work uniform off on my way around the phone still glued to my head.

“And are there any boogeymen around, or am I safe to enjoy my night?” His sarcastic tone would sound snarky to a bitch, but not to me. I know him. And I love him, God bless his soul.

“Nope, unfortunately. No men. Boogey or otherwise.” I sigh in the phone while testing the temperature of the water with my right hand when I make it back to the tub.

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one holding you back there, sweetie. I can’t fuck all these hot guys for you. As hard as I’m trying, I don’t think it’s gonna be a possibility. I don’t know how to tell ya…”

“Uh huh. Why are you still pestering the shit out of me? Go be fabulous. Go be gay. Quit fucking with me. Haven’t you learned yet? I ride solo.” Okay, I’m only partially whining.

“Oh no you don’t, Eve!”

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Okay, I’m getting in the shower. You go on your date. I’ll see you tomorrow after work. We still on?”

“Oh hell yes, ma’am, we are. Can’t wait! I love you, bitch!”