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The First four chapters of “CASH”, my soon-to-be-released book about a divorced older woman, and a younger biker.

Posted in free chapters, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle romance, Free sex, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , , on January 15, 2018 by scottdhildreth

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

I couldn’t believe my ears. With my arms wrapped tightly around my mid-section, I rocked back and forth in my chair and fought to keep from crying.

“You’re telling me that someone hacked into my accounts, took everything, and didn’t leave a single trace?”

He lifted a one-inch-thick pile of paperwork from his desk and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ve got the account number that the money was initially transferred to, but the funds are no longer there–”

“There’s got to be some record of where the money went. Right?”

“There does,” he said with a slight nod. “And, there is. But…”

My heart fluttered with hope. There had to be a way to find it. There simply had to.

He tossed the stack of paperwork to the side and shook his head. “I’m sorry to say the account no longer exists. The money was moved several times, and at one point, the funds were split into multiple accounts. Then, based on the information we’ve been provided, we believe the accounts were converted to cash. From that point, it’s impossible to trace where the money went.”

My father’s intelligence coupled with a little luck in the stock market had built the fortune, and I’d spent my lifetime acting as if it didn’t exist. To think that someone managed to get to my accounts, drain them of several million dollars – and do so without my knowledge or approval – was incomprehensible.

“But, there’s a name. There must be a name,” I muttered. “An account can’t be opened without a name and a social security number.”

His blank expression confirmed my fear.

“Tell me you’ve got a name, John,” I pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Kimberly. The FBI will be conducting an investigation. Based on the information I’ve been able to gather, however, I’ve got little hope the funds will be found. This isn’t common, but I have seen this happen before.”

The son-of-a-bitch probably started planning to rob me right after he swept me off my feet. I should have known better than to ever let my guard down. Confiding in him that I had the nest egg was a mistake I’d undoubtedly regret until the day I died.

Admitting now that I once loved him made me feel ill.

I had a cute little shoe boutique that I loved, but it produced almost no revenue. The earned interest of my inheritance was my main source of income. Without it, living day to day – even in my modest home – would be impossible.

I stared blankly at him, waiting for something to change. For him to tell me that there was something left. A crumb. A few thousand dollars.

Something.

He stood and straightened his tie. “I’m sorry, Kimberly. I know Isaac and Janet are turning over in their graves about this.”

Fearing my legs wouldn’t hold me if I attempted to stand, I chose to remain seated. As he came around the corner of his desk, the sorrow he wore caused my stomach to twist into a knot.

“Whoever did this was a professional?” I pressed my forearms against my mid-section. “Someone who knew what they were doing?”

“Absolutely. It isn’t that they didn’t leave a trace, because they did.” He crossed his arms. “It’s more difficult than that. Our system of checks and balances was met. Passwords were prompted, entered, as were mother’s maiden names and high school mascots. On the surface, it appears that you were the one transferring the funds. Your presence today, however, indicates you weren’t. I’m truly sorry.”

I drew a slow breath, and then stood. After bracing myself on the arm of the chair, I met his sorrowful gaze. “The FBI can’t catch them?”

“They’ll try, but I have doubts they’ll do anything in a manner timely enough to recover the funds. Cases like this are always shoved to the back burner, so to speak.”

“If I wanted to find this guy, I’d have to move quickly. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It would require more than moving quickly. It would require finding a computer genius who was capable of hacking deep into the bowels of a financial network designed to thwart such activity. There’s a handful of such people. They’re either employed by the government, or they’re very anti-government,” he explained.

I nodded. “A hacker.”

“A hacker who isn’t opposed to breaking the law. They’d have to search without warrants, or cause. The person in question would have to be a criminal with experience in manipulating funds. Not a professional, a criminal.”

My mouth twisted into a smirk.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You know such a mastermind?”

I knew someone who knew someone. It was a stretch, but it was all I had. Eager to get started at finding my money – and to bury the man who stole it – I brushed the wrinkles from my dress and straightened my posture.

“Downplay the necessity to investigate this to the FBI if you can,” I said. “It’ll buy me some time. I may need it.”

“If you find him before they do, there’ll likely be no prosecution for the crime.”

I chuckled a dry laugh. “After I catch this son-of-a-bitch, there’ll be nothing left of him to prosecute.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Kimberly

 

 

When it comes to relationships, forever doesn’t mean forever. It means until something more exciting comes along.

For twenty years, Marvin promised that the day would come when things would be different. For nineteen of them, I believed him. Convinced that he was going to change, I lived hoping the next sunrise would bring with it a new life. One where I lived with the man of my dreams, not the one I was married to.

But change never came.

My fear of being single prevented me from leaving him. Somehow comfortable in the awkward one-sided relationship, I accepted that I’d simply be alone throughout our marriage. That fear was replaced by anger when I found out he’d been cheating on me for two decades.

Humiliated, angry, and scared, I gathered my things and left one day while he was at work.

Although it took time, I became comfortably independent. Confidence followed. I learned to cook for one. I joined the YMCA. I ran a half marathon. I developed routines. I cleaned house, repeatedly. Eventually, I found new friends and developed a new way of enjoying life.

Yet. I remained single.

Not by choice, either.

A few years passed. Several drunken idiots hit on me, often saying things like, nice tits, or do women your age give head? I found no one who was looking for a real relationship, or that I was interested in. I realized I may never find love. Then, I accepted it as being inevitable. Even though I’d never felt better about myself, I feared I was simply too old to garner anyone’s interest in the competitive SoCal singles scene.

Initially, I blamed him for ruining my chances at living a normal life. He promised to cherish me and love me forever, despite what changes may come about in our lives. He took an oath. An oath that he broke repeatedly through dishonesty, infidelity, indifference, violent behavior, and sheer disrespect. I felt that I’d wasted twenty-five years of my life. A quarter of a century of dating and marriage, all for nothing. In the end, I realized it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just the way life unfolded.

So, I accepted it as being nothing more than a speedbump on my life’s freeway.

Now, after nearly four years, that speedbump was standing on my porch. Dressed in my pajamas and house slippers, I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He had no right to simply show up at my home, and I was prepared to tell him so.

I stepped through the door, gave him an evil glare, and raised my index finger. “I’m going to count to three, and then–”

“And then, what?” he barked.

He stepped off the back side of the porch and looked me over. “You look good, Kim. I miss fucking you.”

“I mean it,” I snapped back, my voice thick with anger. “Get off my property, or I’ll–”

“You’ll what? You gonna scream?” A drunken laugh rumbled from his lungs. “I like it when you scream. Go ahead.”

“I’ll call the police. In case you forgot, you’re under a restraining order. You’re not supposed to be here. Ever.” I huffed out a sigh. “It’s been almost four years. I’m over you. Get over me.”

“You’re not going to call the cops.” He grabbed at his crotch. “You want it and you know it.”

He was an asshole by nature. When he drank, he was a belligerent asshole. He was ten feet away, yet the smell of whiskey leeching from his pores enveloped me like a dense fog. Reasoning with him was going to be impossible. I decided to give my closing remark and return to the comfort of my queen-sized Green Tea mattress.

“We haven’t had sex in five years,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t want it. Now, or ever. You’re disgusting.”

Courage was something else that I developed after we parted. I liked my new life, and the new me. Brimming with confidence, I turned and reached for the door.

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me halfway around, almost knocking me down in the process. I swung my arms wildly, hoping to fight him off. His massive size and drunken determination, however, prevented me from succeeding. It seemed his angry hands were everywhere, groping and grabbing places I decided he was no longer entitled entitled to grope and grab.

“Stop it!” I screamed. Blindly, I pounded my fists into his face and neck. “Get off me!”

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you,” he warned. “You look like you need it.”

If he was going to fuck me, he was going to have to kill me. I decided many years prior that he was never going to touch me again, and I was prepared to fight him like I feared nothing.

One of my wild swings caught him right in the eye. In retaliation, he slammed me against the side of the house, knocking the wind completely out of me. While I sucked a choppy breath, he fumbled to find the door handle. With his attention diverted away from me and one of his hands busy, I kneed him in the balls as hard as I could. A few wild swings of my clenched fists followed, as did several swift kicks to his groin.

I’d hoped to get him to turn me loose, so I could either run inside or take off down the street. Instead of releasing me, his clenched fist crashing into my jaw. I stumbled across the porch as I tried to keep my footing.

When everything came into focus, his twisted grin was the first thing I saw. The second was the neighbor from down the street leaving on his motorcycle.

Marvin pulled the front door open, laughing at my efforts to fight him off. I took advantage of the opportunity, and leapt from the porch. Flailing my arms and screaming as I ran across the front yard, I made a beeline toward the flickering headlight of the neighbor’s Harley.

“Help me!” I came to a stop directly in front of the motorcycle’s path. “He’s trying to rape me!”

The motorcycle swerved to miss me, and came to a screeching stop at my side. The rider cut off the engine. Through his clear-lensed glasses, he looked at me with anger in his eyes.

“What the fuck?” He unbuckled the strap on his helmet. “I almost hit you.”

He wasn’t my neighbor, nor was he familiar. I didn’t care. He was willing to listen, and that was all that mattered.

“He’s…” I heaved to catch my breath and pointed toward my house. “He’s trying to…rape me.”

Before I had an opportunity to explain further, the biker was half the distance to my porch, chasing after my stupid ex, who was running toward his truck.

The biker tackled Marvin as if he were stopping him from scoring the game-winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Filled with confidence that the stranger would keep my asshole ex from attacking me again, I walked toward the two men. By the time I got there, Marvin was flat on his back, and the biker was sitting on his chest.

I leaned over them. “Who getting fucked now, asshole?” I asked in a sarcastic tone. “Not me.”

“She’s my wife,” Marvin lied. “I was just…”

“We’re not married, you liar,” I bellowed. “We haven’t been for almost four years.”

With his knees against Marvin’s arms and his hands holding his wrists, the biker looked up at me. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“She’s out of her fucking mind,” Marvin said. “I’ll tell you what’s going on–”

“Shut the fuck up,” the biker demanded. “Nobody’s talking to you.”

“We divorced almost four years ago,” I shouted. “I’ve got a restraining order against him! I haven’t seen him in eighteen months, and he showed up tonight and said he was going to fuck me. When I said no, he did this.” I touched the tip of my index finger against my swollen cheek.

The biker studied me. Upon seeing the damage that Marvin had done to my face, his expression changed from concern to rage. Without saying a word, he removed his helmet, tossed it aside, and then yanked Marvin to his feet.

“You hit her?” he asked through clenched teeth.

I’d spent over twenty years with Marvin. During that time, I was convinced that men didn’t exist who were bigger than he was. The biker stood as proof that I was wrong. He towered over Marvin’s six-foot-two frame like a bearded giant.

Marvin looked at me, scoffed, and then looked at the biker. “Sometimes, women need it. She needed it.”

Apparently, it wasn’t the answer the biker had hoped for.

His fist plowed into Marvin’s face. A flurry of punches from the biker followed – each of which caused Marvin to crumble closer to the ground. After the last swing – a wild right hand that came crashing against Marvin’s jaw with a crack, his legs gave out, and he fell against his truck.

Then, without throwing a punch or saying a word, Marvin slumped into a pile at the biker’s feet. The lop-sided fight took fifteen seconds, if that.

Marvin covered his bloody face with his hands and moaned.

There’s not a victim of abuse that doesn’t wish she’d be given an opportunity to kick her attacker in the balls without fear of repercussion. If given a chance, any woman would jump at the occasion.

So, that’s what I did. I jumped. On Marvin’s nuts, that is.

With all my might, I stomped my heel into Marvin’s overly active male anatomy. The air shot from his lungs with a grunt, and his body wadded into the fetal position.

“Damn.” The biker looked at me. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “That was cruel.”

I wasn’t cruel, Marvin was cruel. After we divorced, he’d often stop by and threaten to burn down my house or kill my cat. My house was never touched, but one day my cat disappeared. I despised him. I wished he would be hit by a passing truck while changing his tire on the Five. A recurring daydream of bits and pieces of his body being strewn along the freeway from Los Angeles to San Diego brought an odd sense of comfort when it came to mind.

A leg in Costa Mesa for fucking the tattooed skank of a bartender at Twin Peaks. An arm in San Clemente for repeatedly dipping his dick in the anorexic receptionist at his office. His head in Oceanside for the fling with the nineteen-year-old Vietnamese girl who believed his promise of getting her legal citizenship.

He didn’t have enough body parts – nor were there enough cities along the interstate to toss them – for all the fucked-up shit he made me endure.

“Cruel?” I folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t know him like I know him. What he did tonight was nothing compared to what he’s done to me for years.”

His face went stern. “He’s done this before?”

“In so many ways that I lost count many years ago.”

He brushed his hair out of his eyes, removed his glasses, and studied me. An untrimmed beard covered his face, and gave him a rugged don’t fuck with me appearance.

I looked him over. He was tall, and built like an athlete. A black tee shirt clung tightly to his broad chest, and tattered jeans covered his long legs. A pair of lace-up leather boots finished off the biker ensemble perfectly. He looked mean, but if I’d learned anything in my forty-four years, it was that a person’s looks were no indication of who they were on the inside.

Marvin groaned, and attempted to stand.

Without shifting his eyes away from me, the biker swung the toe of his boot into Marvin’s crotch. The impact wadded him into a tight ball, and ended any chance of him getting up for a long, long time.

My rescuer undressed me with his eyes, and eventually met my gaze.

“Cash,” he said dryly.

I coughed out disbelief, and gave him an I can’t fucking believe you look. “You want me to pay you?”

“No.” He chuckled. “My name’s Cash.”

Marvin remained incapacitated, moaning his displeasure into the warm night air. I studied the biker. His rough looks, disheveled appearance, and bloody knuckles convinced me that in his presence, I would be safe.

“Kimberly.” I shook his hand. “Kimberly Welch. Thank you for helping me.”

He eyed me up and down. After pausing at my boobs for a moment, he looked me in the eyes and grinned.

“I like your pussy,” he said flatly.

My face flashed hot. My lips parted, and although my mind wanted me to respond, my mouth had gone completely dry. Saying anything wasn’t going to come easily.

I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard. “Huh?”

His eyes dropped to my boobs. “Nice pussy.”

I glanced down, and then quickly realized what he was talking about. There was a cartoonish cat plastered across the chest of my pajama shirt. He didn’t like my pussy at all, he was simply making fun of my late-night attire. Despite the awkwardness of having my ex-husband moaning in pain at my feet I imagined riding away on the back of his bike and never looking back.

It was nice to dream, if even just for a moment.

I squeezed my biceps against the edge of my boobs, feigned a chill, and gave a quick curtsey. “Thank you.”

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. He cocked his head to the side. One side of his mouth curled into a grin. Then, he winked playfully.

I gestured behind me. “Sounds like someone called the cops.”

He looked me over, but didn’t budge from where he was standing. “If I had any common sense, I’d leave,” he said dryly.

I glanced at Marvin, and then met the biker’s gaze. “But you’re going to stay?”

He took a quick look at my pussy and grinned. “Yep.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

Cash

 

In addition to housing our motorcycles and cars, the garage of our MC’s clubhouse acted as a repair facility for all personal modes of transportation. Ghost lowered the Mustang’s motor into the engine bay and checked the positioning. After satisfying himself that it was exactly where he wanted it to be, he looked up. “Like that waitress at the fish place in Oceanside?”

“No. This chick had some serious curves. Perfect ass, big titties, nice thick legs. And, she had good hair. Big hair.”

I conjured up an image of her perfectly round ass jostling up and down in her pajamas as she paced the driveway. My cock stiffened at the thought. I shifted my attention to Ghost and shook my head lightly.

He gazed at the engine for a moment, and then looked at me. “Was she built like Amy Betterman?”

Amy was a thick-legged cheerleader in high school that had nice tits and a spectacular ass. Although she sparked none of our interest during school, it was easy to look back at those days and wonder what was wrong with us when we were kids. The five of us would fight each other to get a shot at her now. Back then, all we wanted a girl who was built like a pencil and wasn’t afraid to put a dick in her mouth.

“Exactly!” I blurted.

“No shit?” His eyebrows raised. “She looked like Amy fucking Betterman?”

“Pretty much. But her hair wasn’t brown. It was kinda blondish.”

“It’s funny. When we were kids, we all called her BUTT-erman.” He reached for his bottle of beer. “We were fools. That was one fine bitch.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“So, you just left?” He asked. “You didn’t try to get in her pants?”

“She wasn’t wearing pants.”

He sipped his beer. “Pants, shorts, whatever.”

“Pajamas.”

One eyebrow raised. “Bra?”

“Nope.”

“Cantaloupe-sized tits in a pajama top without a bra, and you just left?” He looked me over and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m calling bullshit.”

“I told you, the fuckin’ cops showed up. While I was answering all the questions, some little short fucker escorted her up to the house. I didn’t see her after that.”

“He’s probably balls-deep in that shit right now,” he said stone-faced. “A big-dicked man in uniform is an irresistible combination.”

“Who says he’s got a big dick?” I asked in an irritated tone. “He might be hung like a mouse.”

“You said the cop was a little short fucker, right?”

“Yeah. He came up to her shoulder, why?”

“Little cops always have great big dicks,” he said matter-of-factly.

I crossed my arms and gave him a look of disbelief. “According to who?”

“Statistics. Little cops are always hung like mules.”

“Where the fuck do you get police dick data? Sounds like more of that fake news to me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge.”

“It’s common bullshit,” I said with a wave of my hand.

Accepting that a height challenged big-dicked cop was fucking her while I answered a barrage of questions was impossible. If anyone should have been fucking her, it was me, and not some lame-assed cop that barely came up to her shoulder.

I finished my beer and turned toward the trash can. “She didn’t seem to be the type that liked cops.”

“Looked like the type to find a clean-cut cop as a turn off, huh?” He chuckled, and then peered into the car’s engine bay. “She seemed to be more into ugly bikers?”

“I ain’t ugly, motherfucker.”

“You’re sure as fuck not pretty. Chicks dig a man in uniform, especially a cop. They see them as a protector. Someone who can rescue them. Keep them from harm, and all that shit.”

I was the one that rescued her, not the cop. I clenched my jaw at the thought of him winning and me losing. After a moment, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Chicks dig rough looking fuckers like me,” I said, more to convince myself than to convince him.

He looked up. “If you say so.”

I couldn’t decide if the remark about Kimberly fucking the cop was meant to piss me off, or if it was truly what he thought had happened. Cops annoyed the fuck out of me, and if anyone knew it, he did.

We grew up in Great Falls, Montana, one hundred and twenty miles from the Canadian border. Be it my hatred of cold weather, the desolate countryside, or my desire to live somewhere that simply had more to offer, I decided after I graduated high school that I wanted to get as far away from Montana as possible.

San Diego, California was the clear winner. The city offered everything that Great falls didn’t. Weather suitable for year-round motorcycle riding, beaches, and two million people to hide amongst.

There were five of us that grew up together: Baker, Goose, Ghost, Tito, and me. We made a pact in third grade that we would remain inseparable. The fact that we moved fifteen hundred miles away – as a group – confirmed our loyalty to one another.

Upon settling in San Diego, we started an unconventional motorcycle club, and later added a sixth man – a military vet from Texas. Focusing on each of our individual strengths as small-time thieves, the club stole from those we felt weren’t worthy of their wealth. As we grew older and more experienced, our jobs became more complex. Now with more than ten years of experience robbing Southern Californian’s of their treasures, no one’s money was beyond our grasp.

Ghost was built like a professional body builder. He was the resident chief mechanic, go-fast guru, and the only member of the club that was willing to talk without chastising me for my thoughts. Although I was close friends with all the men, he and I talked about things I wouldn’t eagerly share with the other men.

“Maybe I’ll go by there and check on her,” I said under my breath.

“That cops probably taking a shower right about now,” he said without looking up. “Hell, he might whip your ass for nosing around.”

“No cop’s whipping my ass,” I assured him.

He straightened his posture, looked me over, and shifted his attention to the Mustang’s wiring harness. “Cop’s know all that pressure point stuff. Bet the fucker can touch your wrist with his thumb and bring you to your knees.”

I hadn’t had my ass whipped since I was in kindergarten, and he knew it. I choked on a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“He’d wad you up in a ball if he wanted to,” he taunted.

I twisted the toe of my boot back and forth on the floor between us. “I’d squash him like a fuckin’ bug.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

There wasn’t a man on earth I feared, cops included. I tossed my bottle in the trash and turned toward my motorcycle.

He chuckled a low laugh. “Where you going?”

“Heading to Goose’s place.”

“Not going to stop by that gal’s house, are you?”

“I might,” I said over my shoulder.

“Better take a couple of the fellas with you,” he said dryly. “Just in case that little cop wants to protect what’s his. Might take three or four men to whip him.”

I didn’t need help kicking any man’s ass, and I was prepared to prove it. I stomped to my motorcycle and snatched my helmet off the handlebars.

“Pic’s or it didn’t happen,” Ghost shouted.

Baker, the MC’s president, came around the corner as I was lifting my leg over the seat of my bike.

“Pretty early for a beer run,” he said. “Where you going?”

I pulled on my helmet. “To take some pics.”

He looked at me the way he always did. Like I was an idiot. “Of what?”

“Little cops and big tits.” I buckled the helmet’s strap and fired up the bike. “In that order.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

Kimberly

 

Jennifer was once Oceanside High’s head cheerleader and all-around bubbly blonde bimbo. Now fifty and married with two adult children, she was reduced to being my ditzy blonde neighbor, sounding board, and best friend.

Short, and golden bronze from spray tanning, her athletic size four frame and D-cup boobs attracted the immediate attention of most men. Hair color and Botox treatments masked her age, and she could easily pass for being in her late thirties. When she was away from her husband, she acted like she was still seventeen.

She leaned against the edge of my kitchen table with her coffee at arm’s length. Her hands encompassed the cup like she was presenting me with a peace offering.

She blinked a few times, and then looked at me with dreamy eyes. “Like Dwayne Johnson?”

I peered over the top of my cup and gave her a confused look. “Who?”

The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Dwayne Johnson.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Dwayne Johnson,” she cooed. “The Rock.”

“The big bald-headed guy?”

She drew a long breath through her nose, and then exhaled softly. “Uh huh.”

If there was ever a woman who lived vicariously through others, it was Jennifer. Our conversations were often about men, and included detailed explanations of how she’d behave with them if she wasn’t married.

“No,” I said. “Not even close. More like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Only taller.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not big.”

“He was big,” I assured her. “He had a presence about him, too.”

She gave me a side-eyed look. “If was skinny like Brad Pitt, he wasn’t big. I think this big thing was all in your head. You were drooling because he kicked Marvin’s ass.”

“I’m not you. I don’t need a man in my life. He was big, and he was kind. Those are the facts. There was no drooling going on.”

“Your senses were distorted.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”

“My senses were just fine.”

She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the edge of the table. A serious look washed over her. “I screwed the quarterback of the football team at a house party when I was in high school. On Monday, when I was bragging about it in gym class, I compared his cock to my wrist. Half the girls I was talking to gasped, and said, ‘You must have fucked a different Jeff Simmons than the one I fucked, because that Jeff Simmons has a dick the size of a grape.’”

My eyes narrowed. “A grape?”

“A big grape.”

I chuckled. “And you thought he had a monster cock?”

“I was sure of it.”

I gave her a look. “Where are you going with this?”

“When I had sex with him, I was drunk. He was handsome, and the quarterback of the football team. So, in my mind, he was hung. In reality, he wasn’t. I think you’re wanting this guy to be some oversized muscle-bound hero. But, if he’s built like Brad Pitt, he’s a skinny twit.”

The biker wasn’t skinny, and he wasn’t a twit. To satisfy her, and to end the lop-sided conversation, I reluctantly agreed.

“Fine,” I huffed. “He was a skinny twit.”

“He sounds like a douchebag, too. What’d you say his name was?” She giggled. “Dolla Bill?”

I sighed dramatically. “Cash.”

She burst out in laughter. “Oh, that’s right. I knew it was something like Dolla Bill or Mista Money. But, Cash. Really? That’s ridiculous. He’s a wannabe. Probably uses the bike to get laid.”

I forced a sigh. “He’s wasn’t a wannabe.”

Her eyebrows raised. “He said his name was Cash. He’s a wannabe.”

“Maybe it was his last name.”

“Maybe he wanted you to think he was cool. Is he one of those guys that’s always riding up and down the street at midnight?”

“I think so.”

“They’re young.” One of her Botox-injected eyebrows arched a little. “How old was he?”

I’d wondered the same thing. With the scruff on his face, it was hard to tell for sure. By my estimation, he was in his latter twenties, or early thirties. Either way, he was far too young to be interested in me. That much I knew.

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”

She smiled. “A youngster.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.”

“Young and skinny,” she said. “Not my type. I prefer the bulging biceps, wide chests, and swollen traps of gym rats.”

Her husband was her height and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The only muscles he had were what he’d developed from simultaneously shoveling 7-Eleven’s chicken wings and chimichangas into his mouth.

I scoffed. “Frank’s not a body builder by any means.”

“That’s why I’ve got to drink three glasses of wine and take a Xanax before we have sex.” She tapped the tip of her index finger against her temple. “In my mind, he is – as long as I’m drunk.”

I finished my coffee and stood. “Back to what I was saying. It’s really bothering me that I didn’t get a chance to thank this guy. I think I said, ‘thank you’, but I can’t really remember. Everything happened so fast, and then the cops were here.”

She shrugged. “He might be one of those guys that’s always riding down the street at midnight. Maybe you’ll get a chance.”

I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher. “I doubt it.”

The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to shift my attention to the street. I filled with nervous hope as the sound grew louder. The rumble from a Harley’s exhaust was something I’d become accustomed to over the years, as a group of bikers were constantly zooming up and down the block. I wondered, however, if each approaching bike would now bring butterflies to my stomach and a tingling in my nether region.

My eyes went wide as the black Harley came into view, and then pulled into the drive.

“Jesus,” Jennifer said. “It sounds like we’re being invaded.”

“He’s uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the window. “He just pulled in.”

“Who?”

I swallowed heavily, and wondered what caused him to stop by on a Saturday morning at nine thirty.

“The skinny twit,” I responded.

She rushed to my side just in time to see him remove his helmet. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a faded black shirt that said Cars Suck across the chest, he looked every bit the part of the biker that he undoubtedly was.

He set the helmet on his seat, and sauntered up the driveway.

Jennifer flattened her chest against the counter top and peered over the window ledge. “He’s not skinny.”

“No,” I admired his confident strut. “He’s sure not.”

“He’s uhhm.” She swallowed and then let out a breath. “He’s sexy as fuck.”

He sure is.

As he disappeared from our field of view, she gave me a curious look. Then, the doorbell rang.

She flipped her blonde curls over her shoulder, and tugged her shorts out of her twat. “Let him in.”

I gestured toward the door with my eyes. “Go home.”

She coughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Go. Home.”

“Go to hell,” she said.

I brushed past her. “Fine, but you’re going to be quiet.”

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

I pulled the door open and smiled. “Good morning.”

I felt Jennifer’s breath against my left arm. I wanted to swat her like a picnic fly, but feared pushing her onto the floor might appear juvenile. As Cash pushed his hand into the pocket of his jeans, I took a step to my left and nudged her from his view.

“I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” He wrung his hands together. “Didn’t get to see you after the cops got here.”

“I’m just fine, thank you. The police were here until four in the morning asking questions, and having me sign reports. It was a long night.”

“I filled out a report, too,” he said. “They’ll probably see if our stories jive with one another.”

The sound of Jennifer’s heavy breathing reminded me that she was still present. I stepped to the side and wedged her between my hip and the side of the console table.

I looked at Cash and widened my eyes. “You can come in, if you’d like to.”

He stepped inside, glanced at her, and then looked at me.

“That’s Jennifer. She was leaving.” I shot her a look. “Say ‘hi’ before you go, Jennifer.”

She darted around me and extended her arm. “I like your shirt.”

His shirt?

Really?

He grinned and shook her hand. “Thanks.”

I gestured toward the front door with my left hand. “Goodbye, Jennifer.” I tilted my head toward the living room and offered Cash a smile. “Come on in.”

With the speed of a rabbit on crack, Jennifer slammed the front door, shot into the living room, and came to a screeching halt on the end of the couch.

Cash stepped into the room, and gave it a precursory look. Jennifer forced a fake yawn and arched her back, heaving her massive boobs toward the ceiling in the process. Mentally, I rolled my eyes at her theatrics. The only way Cash wouldn’t see her melon-sized mammaries was if he was blind.

For whatever reason, however, he didn’t seem to notice.

Cash – 1, Jennifer – 0.

I gave her a quick laser-sharp glare. She crossed her tanned legs, flashed me a grin, and then looked at Cash.

“Do you live down at the end of the block?” she asked.

He sat in the chair at the corner of the room. “No. One of the fellas I ride with lives down there.”

“When I hear you guys ride by, it reminds me of that show on Netflix,” she said. “I’ve watched every episode. I’ve always been partial to motorcycles and muscles.”

Jennifer was flirtatious and outgoing, but she was acting ridiculous. For the last four years, all she’d done was complain about the late-night window rattling caused by the neighbor’s loud exhaust. I sat at the opposite end of the couch from her and clenched my jaw tight to keep from calling her out on her fictitious claims of biker love.

“Paints a pretty fucked up picture of us if you ask me,” he said dryly. “Bikers aren’t really like that.”

“I think the ones that ride in clubs are,” she said. “The hard-core bikers.”

He glared at her. “Hard core?” He chuckled. “I’ve ridden a motorcycle every day for the last ten years. Our club rode from here to Connecticut last year. We ate gas station burritos and slept beside our bikes in rest stop parking lots, using our jackets for pillows. Six thousand miles in four weeks. We make trips like that a couple of times a year. How’s that for hard-core?”

Cash – 2. Jennifer – 0.

Riding across the country and using an asphalt parking lot for a bed sounded hard-core to me. My eyes shot to Jennifer, curious to see how she would crawl out of the hole she’d managed to dig.

“Hollywood always glamorizes the violence. It doesn’t surprise me that the show’s a farce.” She tossed her hair and gave him a semi-serious look. “If it bleeds, it sells, right?”

“I guess so,” he said dismissively.

“So, you ride in a club?” I asked.

He cupped his left hand over his clenched fist and nodded. “A small one.”

I studied him, wondering what he’d look like without the scruff on his jaw. The entire beard thing looked good while he was whipping my ex-husband’s ass, but the longer I looked at it, the more I wanted it to disappear.

Millennials with untrimmed facial hair that hung down to their chest ruined my desire to see a man use a beard as anything other than proof that he had a long, tiring weekend.

“Maybe the bigger clubs do things differently,” Jennifer said. “You know, like the Hells Angels.”

“If you say so,” he said dryly.

He brushed his hair to the side and looked right at me. “What?”

“Huh?” I muttered.

His eyes narrowed. “You were staring at me. Something wrong?”

“I was just…” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“You can’t start explaining something and then say, ‘it’s nothing’. What?”

“It’s nothing.”

He lowered his chin and raised both eyebrows.

I sighed. “Is the beard a permanent part of who you are?”

He stroked his jaw with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I don’t have a beard.”

I pointed toward the hall bath. “You might want to go look in the mirror.”

“It’s not a beard.” He rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I just. I haven’t shaved in a while.”

“Is it common for you to go a month or so without shaving?”

“I think it’s sexy,” Jennifer chimed.

I shot her a quick glare.

“Depends on what I’ve got going on,” he said. “I’ll shave when I get time.”

“So, you’ve been too busy to shave? That’s your answer?”

“I’ve been saving barefoot women from being raped, and then checking up on them to make sure they’re doing alright.” He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned a smug smile. “Yeah. Been pretty fuckin’ busy.”

I’d become used to Jennifer’s in-your-face wit. Seeing his dry sense of humor was a nice change. Before I could devise a comeback, he continued.

He nodded toward me feet, which were bare. “You ever find your shoes?”

“They were beside the porch.”

He glanced at Jennifer. “She your little sister?”

“No, She’s my neighbor.” I shifted my eyes from him to her. “She lives across the street with her husband.” I looked at him. “We’re friends.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered in a snide tone.

He motioned toward the hallway with his eyes. “You mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Not at all.” I pointed toward the hall bath. “It’s right there.”

He stood, and then gave a nod to each of us before disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as the door latch clicked, Jennifer turned toward me and widened her eyes.

“He’s a-fucking-mazing. Holy shit, girl. He’s…” She shook her head while she exhaled through her teeth. “Sexy as fuck.”

“Not a skinny twit?” I whispered.

“Not at all.” Her eyes darted toward the bathroom, and then shot back to me. “Did you see his boots?”

“I did, but I didn’t look at them. Why?”

“They’re like, three feet long,” she whispered.

I grinned. “Probably doesn’t have a cock like a grape.”

“I bet he’s got a dick like a donkey.” She took another look toward the bathroom, and then grinned. “You should fuck him and then tell me about it.”

“He’s probably fifteen years younger than me.”

“Age doesn’t matter. Bikers love MILFs.”

I wondered if she learned that tidbit of information on Netflix. I shrugged, knowing there wasn’t much I could do to interest him in me, regardless.

“I’m not a mother,” I said.

“He didn’t come here to check on you,” she said. “He came here to fuck.”

The thought was laughable. “No, he didn’t.”

The bathroom door opened. He walked into the center of the room, checked his watch, and then looked at me.

“I need to get going.”

I realized that I’d clung to the belief that Jennifer was right, and hoped he was going to stay for a while. Feeling a little disappointed, I stood. “Okay.”

He glanced at his watch again, and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. After rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet for a moment, his lips parted slightly.

“You want to go out tonight?” he asked. “Maybe get something to eat?”

I nearly fainted.

“With you?”

His brows knitted together. “Who else would it be with?”

My mouth curled into a guilty smile. “How old are you?”

His chin lifted slightly, as if he was proud of his intended response. “Thirty-one.”

I tilted my head to the side and widened my eyes playfully. “I’m forty-four.”

He pulled his right hand from his pocket and presented his empty palm. “If I had a cookie, I’d give you one. But, I’m fresh out.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

His eyes thinned a little. “To be cookie-less?”

“No, smart-ass. That I’m thirteen years older than you.”

“I don’t give a fuck how old you are,” he said. “I like feisty women. You stomped your ex’s nuts in the driveway. That’s pretty feisty in my book.”

I scrunched my nose. “You want to take me out because I stomped Marvin’s nuts?”

“Yeah. There’s other reasons, too.”

I cocked my hip and flashed a slight smile. “Like what?”

“You’ve got the second nicest ass I’ve ever seen.”

“Who had the first?” I snapped back.

“Some chick in fourth grade.”

I was playing second fiddle to a fourth-grader with an award-winning ass. I didn’t know if it was meant to be a compliment, but I took it as one. His delivery of it brought out the devil in his eyes.

Seeing it secured the dinner date. I simply needed to know how to dress. My eyes widened in wonder. “Would we go on the bike?”

“Yep.”

“Because cars suck?”

“Yep.”

“I’d love to,” I said with a nod.

“Seven sound good?”

I fought to keep from smiling. “Sounds great.”

“Alright, then.” He looked at Jennifer. “Nice to meet you.”

He gave me a quick study, grinned, and turned away. After taking a step toward the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Almost forgot. You’ve got cool hair, too. That was the other thing.”

Then, he left without another word.

It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and I felt invincible. I had a great ass, cool hair, and I was going on a date with a hard-core biker.

Cash – 4. Jennifer – 0. Kimberly – 3.


 

 

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My endeavors to find the right man had afforded me countless hookups, infidelity, and a handful of one-night-stands.

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“DIRTY” – FREE CHAPTERS (the first four)

Posted in Forbidden Love, free best selling romance, free chapters, free ebook, free ebooks, Free erotica, free erotica novel, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle na fiction, free kindle romance, Free sex, free smut, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , on January 17, 2017 by scottdhildreth

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PROLOGUE

Lex

Three weeks before my twenty-first birthday, I was kidnapped on my way out of the 7-Eleven. Whatever preconceived notions I may have had of being ripped away from the life I was living were all promptly thrown out the window, because what happened after they took me was much worse than anything I’d conjured up, even in my vilest of nightmares.

They shoved me into a cab of a pickup truck in broad daylight. Although people walked in and out of the busy convenience store, nobody cared enough to do anything.

Hands came from everywhere, touching me in places I reserved for invitation only. Initially, I fought to get away. Each time I did, the man with the tattooed face hit me with his closed fist.

After being punched in the face repeatedly, my desire to try and escape dwindled to nothing.

As they drove me to a house in one of Oceanside’s drug-infested neighborhoods, the smell of my own blood amalgamated with wafts of sweat, beer, and the sheer filth that already inhabited the cab of the truck.

Fearing what may happen once inside the shitty rathole they parked in front of, I kicked and screamed in protest, but they dragged me inside the house by my hair anyway. In the distance, I heard a car trying to start. The smell of something burning momentarily replaced their repulsive scent, but it didn’t last.

I heard children talking, but couldn’t see them.

As I tried to dismiss the odor and appearance of the revolting house that they tossed me into, I concluded that the hellish pit could never be considered a home. Now trapped, and at their mercy, I was left to wonder how everything happened to me while so many people looked on.

The beating I got in the truck was nothing compared to what happened inside the house. The man with the tattooed face hit me in the stomach so hard I vomited. Then, he punched me in the face so hard it blinded me. The beating continued until I collapsed on the floor.

I remained still, hoping he would stop, but what came next was worse. There were four of them inside the house, the man with the tattooed face, another man who was short and muscular, and two grotesque piles of filth that looked like twins.

I was pulled to my feet by my hair, and while I was groped by so many hands that I couldn’t keep track of what was happening, the sound of laughing, shouting, and my own crying filled the air.

The man with the tattooed face cut off my shorts, but he wasn’t careful when he did it. The tip of the blade sank into the skin of my thigh as he slashed at the fabric.

I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t allow me to simply get undressed, but later decided it must have been part of the process of breaking my spirit.

In just moments, I felt like a week’s time had passed. Once again, I was on the floor.

But this time I was naked.

Humiliated.

And incapable of resisting much more.

The filthy twins masturbated on me while the other two men laughed and drank beer. I tried to wipe their release from my skin, but was kicked in the ribs for my effort.

Then, the muscular man forced me to suck his dick.

What begging I had done was met with a quick fist, so I complied, all the while relying on the little strength my prayers offered.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around his flaccid shaft. He didn’t speak English, but through repeated slapping and hand gestures, I realized he wanted me to keep my eyes open.

I couldn’t force myself to look at his dick, or at his face. I fixed my eyes on his hip, and with reluctance, took him into my mouth. As he became more aroused, an obscene scent secreted from his pores. Soon, it seemed to loom over me like a thick cloud.

After he hardened, he pressed his hands against the back of my head and forced himself deep in my throat. With each thrust of his hips, his putrid flesh smashed against my nose. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the odor of his existence all but suffocated me.

Each forceful shove made me feel more helpless, less like Alexandra, and, for some strange reason, guilt was overtaking me.

He pounded what little hope I clung to from my grasp.

As much as I continued to tell myself it was okay, it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t sexual, nor was it sensual. I tried to force myself to find a way to accept it, but I couldn’t and I feared I never would.

The forceful blowjob lasted for what seemed like an entire lifetime. It was as if the clock turned at a much slower speed once it all started.

Exhausted, I laid lifeless on the floor. I hoped that it was finally over.

My hope was crushed when the man with the tattooed face snatched me to my feet by my hair. With the barrel of his gun pressed against my temple, he forced me to suck his dick.

With my spirit crushed, and my ability to reason gone, I had no mechanism left to mentally fight against what was happening to me.

So, I complied.

I felt like I was another person, one outside of my body who was watching the former me as she performed these vile acts while the real me was elsewhere.

Somewhere safe.

Surreal wouldn’t come close to describing it.

I may have been scared, but I don’t really know. Not really. I was covered in their cum, their scent, their sweat, and my blood. I don’t remember feeling anything but dirty. It was the kind of dirty that sticks with a person for a lifetime.

The kind of dirty that causes a person to stand in front of the sink and scrub mercilessly in hope of somehow cleansing themselves of the filth that they would later find out had become a part of their very being.

The kind of dirty that soap could never wash away.

I was tossed into a room with windows that were boarded shut, a door that only had a handle on the outside, and a bucket that sat in the corner for seven of us to share as a bathroom.

Other than a few blankets, there wasn’t anything else.

We had no clothes.

No toilet paper.

No tampons.

And, no hope.

The days blurred together. Hope faded, and fear set in. Humiliation followed, but it didn’t last long. A lifetime’s worth of pain replaced it.

Then, the eighth girl joined us. She would be the last.

Somehow, she made it into the room without being sexually assaulted, but had been scared and humiliated to a degree that left her stuttering every time she tried to speak. Later, on the night that she came, the man with the tattoos on his face opened the door and demanded that she come with him.

Cowering in the corner, and in fear of what they were going to rip from her, nine-year-old Marbella clung onto a sliver of hope – and my legs.

Yes. She was nine.

I offered myself in her place, but he only grew angrier.

I offered to suck his cock. When he said no, I insisted on it. I told him I craved it. That I loved feeling him pound himself into my throat. As I spoke to him, I fondled my tits in hope of luring him to accept my offer.

Eventually, he agreed.

While he lowered his pants to his thighs, I knelt in front of him with the splinter of wood I’d pried away from the doorframe cupped tightly in my hand.

As I took him into my mouth, I swung the tip of the wooden spike deep into his thigh.

The butt of his pistol against my skull knocked me senseless for a moment. According to the others, he stumbled away with the promise of returning for Marbella, but that time never came.

Minutes later, there was a gunshot. And then another. I counted fifteen more, and then they stopped.

The bedroom door opened.

A tall muscular man wearing a black baseball cap stood in the doorway.

I glared at him. As the other girls sought shelter behind me, I mentally prepared to do whatever I had to do to protect them from the new monster.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He knelt on the floor and let out a sigh. I looked at him with jaded eyes, but then a tear rolled down his cheek. It was then that I knew he wasn’t a monster.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder,” he explained. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Ten minutes later, there was a horrendous thunder. A thunder so powerful that it shook the walls and the floor.

Then, one after another, the angels came.

ONE

Cholo

Many of the men in the MC didn’t have jobs. They hustled for their money. Debt collectors, bail bondsmen, skip tracers, custom bike builders, and thugs for hire were some of their careers. Although I was completely devoted to the club, I chose to work for a living, and owned my own company.

Purchasing a home in southern California wasn’t cheap, or easy, but I was getting there one kitchen remodel at a time.

I pointed at the corner of the ceiling. “You see that gap in the crown molding?”

Steve nodded. “You can see it looking straight at it, but from the side, it’s barely–”

“It looks like shit. Redo it.”

He looked at the imperfection and shook his head. “That’ll waste sixteen feet of molding, and that shit’s expensive. You don’t even see it if you’re not looking for it.”

“Fix it. It’s either right, or it’s wrong. And that’s far from right.”

I was a perfectionist to a fault, and my work reflected it.

He let out a sigh. “Jesus. Fine. I’ll replace it.”

I looked around the kitchen. “Rest of it looks good as fuck, huh?”

He nodded. “Big change from when we started.”

After eliminating an interior wall, we’d replaced the cabinets, the flooring, the countertops, and fitted new tile for the backsplashes. What started as a dark and dated kitchen was now bright, open, and inviting.

The owner was away on vacation, and was scheduled to be home in two days. It was my hope to have the job completed before she arrived.

“She’s gonna be happy when she gets home.”

He looked around the kitchen. “She ought to be. This fucker looks like it should be in a magazine.”

The doorbell rang.

Steve and I exchanged a look. He shrugged.

“Fix that molding,” I said. “I’ll answer that on my way out.”

I sauntered to the door, pulled it open, and was surprised to see one of my old neighbors at the door. It wasn’t just any neighbor, it was Lucy.

She still looked every bit as attractive as she did the last time I saw her, and it had been more than ten years since that day passed.

I had a severe crush on her for what seemed like forever. She was tall, had long lean legs, and was built like a brick shithouse. She was ten years older than me, but it didn’t stop me. I crushed on her hard all through high school, and until she moved away a few years later. I never bothered to tell her how I felt, though.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Lucy?”

She stood on the porch, clutching her purse and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She forced a smile, and then broke down in tears. After an awkward moment of me not really knowing what to do, she looked up and apologized.

“I’m so sorry to… I hate to bother you,” she said between sobs. “But your…your sister said I could find you here. I uhhm. I don’t. The police, they won’t do anything…I can’t…”

“Slow down.” I reached for her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

She looked up and wiped her eyes. “Lex.” She gulped a breath. “Someone’s taken her.”

I was lost. “What?”

“Lex.” She exhaled heavily. “She was at the 7-Eleven. A bunch of people were there and saw it, but the police haven’t done anything. I just…I thought maybe…you were the only person I could think of…”

Still confused, I reached for her other shoulder, steadied her shaking body, and looked her in the eyes. “Breathe. Just slow down. What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. “You remember Lex?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Alexandra?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Your little sister.”

“She’s not my sister.” Her eyes fell to the porch. “She’s my daughter.”

Now I was really confused. “Alexandra’s your daughter?”

She looked up and nodded. “Yes. And, someone has taken her.”

“What do you mean?”

She brushed her hair away from her tired eyes. “She was at the 7-Eleven. She was uhhm. She was…they kidnapped her. While she was getting in her car.”

“Holy shit.” I released her shoulders and crossed my arms. “Did you talk to the cops?”

The last time I had seen Alexandra, she was eight or nine years old. The thought of her driving didn’t quite register. The thought of her being kidnapped didn’t either.

She nodded. “The cops are a bunch of idiots. The guy at the register saw it all, and he gave a description. I just. With your connections…you know, to the gangs,” she stammered. “I thought maybe…I thought you could…”

“I’m not in a gang anymore,” I said. “Well, not really.”

All the air shot from her lungs. “You’re not? Oh God. I–”

I wanted to comfort her, but didn’t really know what to do. As I considered hugging her, she all but fell against me.

Out of reflex, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do you think you can–”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I assured her. “Did you get a good description of the car? Of the guys?”

“Uh huh. They were Mexicans, and they all had tattoos. The guy at the register got a good description of everything, even their tattoos.” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got a copy of the police report.”

If they were Mexicans and had tattoos, my guess was that they were in a gang. If they were, I could find out who they were. I didn’t want to give her any false hope, though.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

She leaned back, wiped away her tears, and then looked at me. Even with her make up running down her cheeks, she was beautiful.

“Thank you,” she said.

I looked her over, and couldn’t help but smile. In ten years, she hadn’t aged a bit. It was sad that her daughter’s disappearance brought us together, but I wasn’t about to complain.

Hell, maybe after I found her daughter I’d take the time to tell her how gorgeous I thought she was.

Maybe.

TWO

Lex

Standing up to our abductors wasn’t possible. Their overall treatment of us was proof that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if we challenged them.

As I was the eldest of the group, I felt obligated to take charge and attempt to protect the others from the wrath of the monsters who held us at their mercy. With limited resources, I had only one bargaining chip.

Offering myself any time the man with tattoos on his face wanted someone for sex.

I reached a point that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, because I did. But the only control I had left was to not react. And, not reacting meant nothing mattered.

I wouldn’t allow it to.

I decided I wasn’t going to allow them to cause me any more harm. So, what they did to me became insignificant.

I was done feeling. And, when I was numb, I could protect my captive family.

The minutes clicked passed one by one and managed to eventually shave an hour off the clock. The hours merged into one another, with us whispering stories of who we were and where we were from, and when it finally got quiet, we knew another day had passed.

With each passing day, as the girls went to sleep, I prayed. Not for freedom, for food, or for better conditions, but for strength.

I knew it was going to take a miracle for us to be freed, and I prayed for the strength to live long enough to witness it.

We memorized each other’s names, addresses, and telephone numbers, repeating them over and over while humming a song we made up. If one of us escaped, we were going to tell the authorities each of the other girl’s names and addresses.

We made a pact.

Sarah was the dreamer, and to pass the time and keep everyone’s spirits up, she led a nightly discussion of what we were going to do when we broke free. Our conversations typically included where we were going to eat, who we were going to see, and what being in that horrid place caused us to miss about the freedoms associated with living our day-to-day lives.

The list of the things we’d taken for granted was unbelievably simple.

Me: Being clothed.

Sarah: Sunshine.

Marbella: Her bedroom.

Kate: Going to the bathroom.

Jess: Not having to ration water.

Debby: Food

Leah: Hearing the birds sing.

And, Mary: Taking a walk.

Making simple choices no longer existed, and we were well aware of it. If freed, I told myself I would never again complain about the tag on my tee shirt causing me to itch, or how southern California’s sun baked my pale skin. I’d comply gratefully when my mother asked if I wanted to meet for lunch or go shopping.

Although I took part in the talks, I had very little concern with what my first meal was going to be, or how much I missed my family. My only real worry was survival, but I wasn’t about to share that with the other girls.

Somehow, be it a result of fate or by my insistence that he choose me first, none of them were abused after I was abducted. As a result, they all looked at me as their guardian.

In that type of situation, a person needs something to hold onto. Something that offers hope. A photo or a good luck charm would have been nice, but we had nothing but each other.

So, every night when it got quiet, we huddled in each other’s arms.

And, I prayed.

To live long enough to see the miracle.

THREE

Cholo

The rotten stench of the adrenaline-laced sweat that leached from the pores of drug dealers and their prey lingered in the air. Two stoned Hispanic men who looked like they hadn’t showered in a month were seated on the filthy tan sofa that was shoved against the far wall.

Beside the couch, a broken-down recliner that appeared to be stuck in the recline position sat empty – short of the half-eaten bag of chicharrones that sat on top of the pile of dirty clothes that littered it. The coffee table in the center of the room was covered with the previous night’s beer bottles, money, an electronic scale, a box of granola bars, and enough cocaine to get San Diego high for a year.

In the hallway to my left, a muscular Hispanic man wearing a stained dingy wife beater and khaki-colored Dickies leaned against the wall.

Directly in front of me, a shirtless man who was covered in jailhouse tattoos stood. The teardrop tattoos dripping from his eye let me know he wasn’t going to play nice, and the script tattooed across his muscular chest clearly identified the gang he was in.

Calle 18.

My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory of the threats. As I sized up each of the four men, the one in front of me grabbed a bottle of beer from the coffee table. As he lifted it, I made note of two things:

One, he was left-handed. And, two, there was a cigarette butt floating in the beer.

He took a few steps toward me, limping slightly as he walked.

The fingers of my right hand twitched, and I hoped he didn’t notice.

If he did, he wouldn’t know what it meant. But I knew. It was one of those tells that a professional poker player must hide to prevent the other people at the table from knowing when he’s bluffing.

Not that I was bluffing.

Because I wasn’t.

But my right hand wondered how I was going to get out of the room alive. I’d been in worse situations, I was sure of it. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t remember any of them.

With his eyes locked on mine, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, took a drink, and then spit it onto the floor in disgust. He glared at the bottle, and then looked at me.

He cocked his head to the side. “Quien te envio?”

Who sent you?

I pulled my hat down a little tighter and then shrugged. “No habla espanol.”

It was a lie. I spoke Spanish fluently, but at least one of them spoke broken English, I was sure of it. Speaking something other than their native tongue would keep those who didn’t speak English a few steps behind, and I needed all the help I could get.

He tossed the bottle onto the floor beside the table. As it belched out the remaining contents onto the carpet, he cleared his throat, and met my gaze.

His eyes fell to my feet, and then slowly rose the length of my frame. “Who seent jew?”

I locked eyes with him. “El mero chignon.”

No one had sent me. My response was a risk, but a minimal one. Within the ranks of Hispanic gangs, there was always an “el mero chignon.” In Spanish, it meant the head motherfucker, the one in charge, or the top dog.

He grinned and nodded his head, revealing a tattooed lower lip and teeth much whiter than I expected. “What jew want, Homie?”

I took a quick glance at the man in the hallway, and then shifted my eyes back to the shirtless man. I debated on whether to tell him the truth or a lie.

A lie would buy me a little time, but eventually I’d either have to beat the shit out of each of them, kill them, or tell them the truth and hope we could work out some sort of agreement. Regardless of my boxing experience, beating them with my fists– and succeeding – wasn’t really an option.

I brushed my left hand along the tail of my shirt until it was alongside the pistol that was tucked into my waistband and prepared to tell him the truth.

I locked eyes with him. “I’m here for the girl.”

He stared right at me for what seemed like forever. The lack of reaction from the other men led me to believe none of them spoke English.

His eyes went thin. “The girl?”

“Yeah. The girl,” I said flatly. “I’m taking her home.”

He spit out a laugh infused with insanity, and then reached behind his back with his left hand. His movements – at least for that instant – seemed to be in slow-motion.

Maybe it was because it was three in the morning. Or it could have been that he hadn’t slept in days. It very well may have been that he was just that confident that I wasn’t armed.

Regardless, his lackadaisical approach to producing what I expected was a gun left me plenty of time to react.

I pulled my pistol with my left hand at the same time I swung my right fist toward his temple.

My knuckles slammed against the side of his skull, knocking him completely off his feet.

“Que nadie se mueva!” I shouted.

Nobody move!

The man leaning against the wall spun around and began to run toward the back of the house. Letting him get away wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.

I took aim and squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom expanded throughout room, making the space seem smaller with each passing second.

The would-be escapee fell into a pile in the hallway at the same time the shirtless man crumbled onto the floor at my feet.

I pointed my pistol at the two wide-eyed idiots on the couch.

The one seated on the right nodded toward the table. “Tomo lo que quieras.”

Take whatever you want.

I pressed the sole of my shoe against the shirtless man’s neck and tilted my head to the side. “Alexandra! Get out here!” I shouted. “I’m taking you home!”

The silence that followed left me wondering if I was too early, too late, or had somehow managed to get the wrong house.

Fuck.

With my eyes still fixed on the two couch dwellers, I yelled her name again. “Alexandra!”

The man beneath my foot started to writhe around. As he did, the two men on the couch began to look around the room nervously.

“Alexandra!”

The shirtless man moaned. “Mataré a toda tu puta familia.”

I’ll kill your entire fucking family.

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d follow through with his threat. I pressed the sole of my shoe firmly against his thorax, wishing he would have simply remained quiet.

If asked, the men in my MC wouldn’t describe me as killer. At least not immediately. It wasn’t that I was incapable of it, or that I was unwilling. It simply wasn’t my answer to the majority of the problems I’d faced in my life.

Fighting was my preference, and I was good at it.

But, when someone threatened my family – be it blood or my brothers in the MC – it earned them a one-way ticket to meet their maker.

I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his chest and pulled the trigger.

My eyes shot to the two nasty fuckers on the couch. Wearing what at one time may have been khakis and moldy wife beaters, they looked like living hell. As the air between us thickened with the taste of cordite, I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.

I pointed the pistol at the man on the right. Greasy strands of jet black hair were plastered against the sides of his face. He wiped his eye with the heel of his palm, and then blinked.

“Donde esta la chica?” I asked.

Where’s the girl?        

He shifted his eyes toward the hallway. “Estan al final del pasillo.”

They’re at the end of the hallway.

The response of they instead of she took me off guard.

I raised the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cuantos?”

How many?

He shrugged one shoulder. “Cinco o seis?”

Five or six?

My jaw tightened. I had hoped to find Alexandra. I wasn’t prepared – physically or emotionally – to encounter five or six women.

“Quantos anos?”

How old?

He gazed at the floor, let out an exaggerated sigh, and then looked at me. “Uno es nueve.” He shrugged. “Uno es once. Las otras? Quizas…dieciocho.”

There were fifteen rounds left in the magazine. Upon hearing his response, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, shooting each of the men until all the bullets were spent and the pistol’s slide stayed locked open.

The thought of them having a nine-year-old girl held captive caused every muscle in my body to tense. I released the empty magazine, loaded a full one, and stepped over the dead man sprawled out in the hallway. When I reached the far door, I paused. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

Dear fucking God.

An otherwise naked girl who was partially covered with a bedsheet stood with her arms outspread as if protecting the girls who were huddled behind her from harm. She was the tallest, and appeared to be the oldest of the group. Her hollow eyes and bruised face were a testament to the brutality she had experienced during the living hell I was sure she’d endured.

The room, void of any furnishings, reeked of urine, shit, and the scent of sex. I swallowed the bile that was rising into my throat and pushed my pistol into the waist of my pants.

I gazed at the half-naked protector. She looked just like Lucy, only younger. There was no doubt in my mind that she was her daughter, Alexandra.

Before I could speak, she locked eyes with me. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “You’re not taking her. Take me.”

Obviously, she didn’t recognize me, and thought I was one of them. It came as no surprise, I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years.

I raised my hands in the air.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” I tipped my hat up slightly. “Your mother sent me. I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here – all of you – but I need to call for some help.”

I had to turn away. Seeing a room filled with petrified pre-teens was far more than my boiling emotions were capable of concealing. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and made the only call I knew would do any good.

He answered on the third ring. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

I struggled not to vomit. After swallowing repeatedly, I responded. “Peeb, I need some help. I’m at Fourteenth and Bush in Oceanside. Bike’s out front. I need six – no make it seven – of the fellas here as quick as possible. Tell ‘em each to bring a spare helmet and glasses. They’ll uhhm. They’ll each have a rider on the roll out.”

“How quick’s quick?”

“It’s a 9-1-1, Brother.”

“Headed out now,” he said.

“Peeb?”

“Yeah, Brother?”

“No kuttes.”

“Come again?”

The club required us to wear kuttes if we were riding, but I didn’t want anyone to be able to identify the MC. Retaliation for what we were doing would be swift if anyone found out who we were.

I glanced into the room. “No kuttes,” I said. “No exceptions. Tell the fellas. If they don’t want to come, I understand. And, another thing. I’m gonna need you to toss some of Tegan’s clothes in your saddle bags.”

“Like what?”

I tried to respond, and almost broke down. After prying my eyes away from the room, I gazed down at the floor and struggled to speak.

“Anything, Brother. I just…I uhhm…”

I knew saying too much on the phone wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t satisfied that I’d said enough. Regardless of my desire to continue, doing so wasn’t easy. “It’s a uhhm. Bring some…bring enough clothes to get…to dress eight teenagers,” I muttered. “It’s…I uhhm. They’re all naked, Peeb…I uhhm…I just need some help, Brother.”

I couldn’t say any more. I wanted to, but I simply couldn’t. The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.

“Hold tight, Brother. Be there in ten.” he said.

All the men in the MC were my brothers, but there was only one who I knew I could count on with no exception, and without question.

Our Sergeant-at-arms, Pee Bee.

I hung up the phone, stepped into the room, and lowered myself to the floor. I glanced at each of the girls, half of which appeared to be Hispanic.

“Habla Ingles?” I asked.

Eight heads nodded.

Undoubtedly scared, but optimistic that whatever was next would be better than their current situation, they looked back at me with eyes filled with hope. I fought against a tear that tried to wedge its way out of my eye, but didn’t succeed.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder.” I opened my arms and widened my eyes. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Although many would argue that statement to be false, I knew better.

And, I was pretty sure in ten minutes, the eight girls in front of me would agree.

***

We rode two abreast and six deep to the shop. After we rolled into the open garage, the president of the club pulled the door closed behind us.

He looked at me and then at Pee Bee. His eyes thinned to slits. “What in the fuck have we here?”

Crip was a stern man, a solid president, and one tough son-of-a-bitch. But, he was a no-nonsense motherfucker if there ever was one.

I flipped the switch and killed the engine. “It’s on me, Boss.”

He shifted his eyes from Pee Bee to me. “What the fuck’s going on? I got some half-assed message from Peeb that said you’re bringing half-a-dozen teenagers to the shop. I’m not looking to start a God damned day care or some biker babysitting ranch.”

“Calle 18 had them locked in a dope house, Boss. They’d all been kidnapped. It wasn’t pretty.” I lifted my leg over my bike. “We saved ‘em.”

Alexandra got off and stepped to my side. Crip looked at her, and then scanned the group. After taking a few seconds to ponder what he was seeing, his eyes fell to the floor and he let out a long sigh.

“God fucking damn.” He looked up. “Calle 18?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Of all the motherfuckers to get into it with…” He crossed his arms and glared at me. “Any reason I didn’t know about this?”

I tilted my head toward Alexandra. “She came up missing a few days back, and her mom came to me and asked if I could find her. After nosing around a bit, I found out who took her. Just went to get her back, and this is what it turned into.”

He glared at me and then waved his arms toward the long line of motorcycles. “So, this wasn’t your plan?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Had no idea the other girls were there. Thought it was just her.”

As the men got off their bikes and helped the girls to their feet, Crip watched. After seeing all there was to see, he turned to face me. His eyes were filled with anger, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

“Need I even ask about the Latino gang you took them from?” he growled.

I shrugged. “You can ask if you want.”

He raised both eyebrows. “I’m fucking asking.”

“Went to the house to see if Alexandra was there, and when I got there I heard a bunch of gunshots, and someone ran past me into the street. White dude with shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. I rushed in and found four of Calle 18’s men dead on the floor. I searched the house, and when I opened the door to the back room, I found these girls. Called the SAA, and him and a few of the fellas showed up to help me get ‘em out of there.”

He rocked back on the balls of his feet and chuckled out a laugh. “Some kid with a swastika?”

I knew better than to tell him the truth in front of the girls. The less they knew about what really happened, the better. To protect the club, myself, and the girls, I stuck to my bullshit story.

I nodded. “Yep.”

He looked at Alexandra.

She shrugged.

He locked eyes with me. “And this swastika guy, he killed the entire household?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head. “Fucking fuck. Nastiest bunch of fucking gangbangers in existence, and it just had to be them?”

“Suppose it could have been worse,” I said.

“I don’t know how.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then looked up. “We need to get these girls to their families, but they’re not coming here to get them. I can’t expose the club or my men.”

I hadn’t really thought about how we were going to get them to their families without questions being asked.

Crip looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. Get them something to drink, and get them fed. There’s shit in the fridge, make ‘em a sandwich or something. I’ll go rent a fucking van, and you can load ‘em up when I get back. Far as I’m concerned, you can drop ‘em off yourself. Best I can think of. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Appreciate ya.”

He shook his head and then turned toward Pee Bee. “Where’s your kutte?”

Pee Bee patted his chest and then looked down. He quickly glanced up as if shocked. “Fuck, Boss. I must have forgot it.”

He looked at Lefty. “What about you?”

Lefty shrugged. “Gang members were pimping out teenage girls, Boss. Took off in a hurry, must have left the fucker hanging there at my place.”

He looked at Smokey.

“Mine’s safe and sound at home, Crip,” Smokey said. “Just protecting the fuckin’ club.”

Crip looked at Pee Bee and then at me. “I’m fining each of you $100 for this. You know the rules.”

There were ten of us, total. “I’ll pay the grand,” I said.

“Twelve hundred,” he growled. “There’s twelve of you.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“And, you better get their heads together and make up some kind of story about where they’ve been, and how they got rescued. If you don’t, it’ll come back to haunt you. I guarantee you at least one of these girl’s parents talked to the cops. At some point, there’s going to be questions asked.”

In all the commotion, I hadn’t even thought of it. He was right, there would be questions asked, and they’d need to be prepared to answer them without exposing the MC. “I’ll come up with something.”

“Keep it simple,” he said. “It’ll be easier to remember.”

I nodded. “Will do.”

He glared at me for a moment, and then walked toward his bike. As he got on, I noticed he wasn’t wearing the MC’s kutte, only a plain leather vest. It was the first time I’d seen him without it.

I looked at Pee Bee and chuckled. “You notice that?”

Pee Bee nodded. “Told him to lose it. Don’t need anyone pointing fingers at the club.”

As Crip fired up his bike, Alexandra cleared her throat.

“He’s a dick,” she whispered.

I couldn’t argue with her. He was a dick. But he was a dick for a reason. “Yeah. He can be,” I said. “But he’s got his reasons.”

I turned around and faced the group. Eleven of my brothers stood beside their bikes, and seven girls who ranged in age from nine to twenty-one were at their sides. What had happened over the course of the night was staggering when I thought about it.

Pee Bee slid the door open, and after Crip rode through it, he pulled it closed.

I crossed my arms and glanced around the group. “He’s going to get a van, and then I’ll get you all taken home. Your parents can take you to the hospital, or wherever you need to go. Probably be about an hour before we head out. Bathroom’s back there, and there’s food in the fridge.”

I tried to imagine what the girls had been through, but for the life of me, couldn’t come up with anything that I felt could compare to what they’d experienced. As a few of the men led the girls toward the bathroom or the refrigerator, Alexandra looked at mem but didn’t speak. Her eyes couldn’t hide her desire to speak, though.

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said. “Not yet.”

“It’ll be an hour or so. You okay?”

She shrugged. “I’ll be okay, but I don’t want to go home.”

Other than having dirty hair, countless bruises, and scrubs that didn’t fit, she looked remarkably normal. It was hard for me to believe she’d been in the position she was in and somehow found a way to maintain anything close to sanity.

She must have been one tough little bitch.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

She shrugged. “With you?”

I shook my head. “After I take everyone home, I’m going for a long ride. Need to clear my head.”

“You need to clear your head?” She tossed her leg over my seat and grinned. “So do I. A lot more than you, I’m sure.”

After going through what she did, if she felt a ride would clear her head, who was I to argue?

“You sure you don’t need–”

“I need another ride on this motorcycle,” she said. “It’s hard to explain, but it makes me feel–”

“No need to explain,” I said. “I know exactly what you’re trying to say.”

Her eyes lit up. “So, you’ll take me for a ride?”

I nodded. “As long of one as it takes.”

“Be careful what you promise,” she said.

I wasn’t worried. She’d get sick of riding long before I did, that much I was sure of.

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