Strider’s Misstep (Mayhem Makers: Wretched Soulz MC)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

JASMINE

SIX MONTHS AGO…

N oting the caller display on my phone, I’m already smiling as I place one hip on my bed, curling up the other leg beside me. “Hey, girl. It’s so good to hear from you.”

“Are you sure?” a tentative voice speaks into my ear.

“Fuck, yeah.” I chuckle. I’d met Sheri eight months back when she and her man, StoryTeller, had sought refuge at the Wretched Soulz Texas Charter’s clubhouse. It had been an explosive entrance, coming in hot through the gates with a rogue member of the Dominators MC after them. Sheri was lucky to be alive. A bullet had hit her backpack, embedding itself in the very book that had brought her and StoryTeller together. Remembering, I sigh, a romantic story, but one for another day. I’d quickly discovered that she’d been carrying precious cargo, and when that news was known, doubly glad she’d be okay. “How’s the babe?”

A wail in the background announces that little Maria isn’t far away. “Grumpy.” Sheri laughs. “She always seems to know when I want a moment to myself. You got her, Jake?” The last three words were a bit muffled, as if she’d turned her head away, so I’m not surprised when I hear StoryTeller’s voice give a confirmatory response, and then the crying fades away. “Jake’s so good with her,” Sheri confides. “A real doting dad.”

She hadn’t expected it would turn out that way. Her pregnancy shocked them both, which is how Sheri knows so much of my life. I’d been in the position of being able to facilitate her choice if she’d wanted things to go the other way. I’d been in the same position a short while before and why she was reticent about making contact today. I know what a surprise pregnancy is like, only mine didn’t have a happy ending. Encouraged to do the “right” thing by the dad, I’d taken the tablets and regretted I had the very next day.

Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? Strider had been so adamant he wasn’t ready to be a father, so I’d done what he wanted. Only, pretty soon, I had doubts. He’s never been the same with me since, and I don’t know why. Our casual sexual relationship had become tense. Strider found excuses to keep his distance until the point came when I couldn’t remember when I last warmed his bed.

Does he blame me for getting pregnant when the condom broke? Or, even with me now on the pill and him still gloving up, does he not want to run the same risk? Or, worse, does he regret the life that could have been and which he pressured me to throw away? Whatever, he and I have never gotten back to the easy relationship we once had.

Not that I have any claim on him. Technically, I’m a club girl, theoretically available to all the men. But Strider had made it known I was only there for him. Even now, when it’s been weeks since he’s asked me to meet his needs, I’m still left alone by the brothers. I’ve naturally fallen into being a sort of house mom—tending bar, looking after the clubhouse, and making sure the other girls stay in line.

“So, what’s it like being a mom?” I ask Sheri, pulling my thoughts away from comparisons between her man and mine.

“Hard work.” She laughs. “I thought babies were supposed to sleep all the time. I fast found out that’s a lie. But enough about me. I rang to see how you were. Tell me something that doesn’t involve talking about expressing milk or diapers.”

I snort. “But you’re loving it, aren’t you?” I don’t need to wait for her reply. I hear it in her laugh. Obliging her, I move to a different topic and prepare to tell her my news. After taking a deep breath, I leap off the cliff and confide, “I’ve written a book.”

There’s silence at the end of the line, then I hear the air leave her lungs in a whoosh. “A book ? Oh my God, Jas. That’s amazing. What’s it about?”

Unable to suppress the grin on my face, I lean back against the pillow. “It’s an MC romance, of course.”

“That’s amazing. It will be brilliant.” Her words tumble out one after another and I appreciate the confidence she has. “You live the life. It’s got to be great. Is it published yet?”

After futilely shaking my head, I say the words, “No. I’m kinda embarrassed, you know? I don’t know if it’s good enough. Before I launch it into the world, I probably need to get it properly edited and proofread. I’ve no clue how to do that.”

“Have you got a cover?”

I’ve got nothing. Just a ton of words written in a document. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause before she asks hesitantly, “Would you let me read it?”

Breathing out heavily, it’s been something I’ve thought about, and partly why I’m so grateful to hear from her. I confirm, “I’d love that. I’m nervous, of course, but you know the genre. I’d like your honest opinion on whether I’m on the right track.” I know she loves the same books as I do, as she’d attended the Motorcycle, Mobsters and Mayhem signing, where she’d picked up the book that ended up saving her life.

“Send it to me,” she demands. “I really can’t wait.”

We spend a couple of moments exchanging pleasantries, then end the call. Before I can have second thoughts, I send the promised email and attachment.

I then try and forget that someone else will be reading my words, expecting it to be an agonising few weeks before I receive any comment from her, and certainly don’t anticipate getting positive feedback. In my head, my story makes sense. I cried, laughed and raged while I was writing it. But I have no idea if I translated the images in my mind sufficiently well to the written word. Was my language too simple, my grammar incorrect, the sentences awkward, too long, too short? Was my manuscript going to be a disaster in a myriad of any possible ways? My education had focused on being academic, not creative writing. Who the hell am I to believe I could write a book? Or, at least, one other people would want to read.

Despite my fears about my first book’s reception, those voices, now having found an audience, just keep speaking in my head. Deciding even if I’m the only person ever to read my stories, I won’t stop. I’m finding it’s as much fun writing books as I have reading them.

It would be amazing if I could actually make some money doing this. Part of me is terrified that I’ll soon be wearing out my welcome with the Wretched Soulz MC.

When I first arrived at the clubhouse looking for sanctuary, I’d made up my mind I’d do anything I had to, just to have their powerful protection on my side. I’d rationalised that I’d become accustomed to being raped before, so what would it matter if I had to let any of the men in the club use my body? The difference would be that it would be with my consent this time. With no other option, I considered it a necessary evil to keep me safe. I knew motorcycle clubs looked after their property. Paying for the privilege of shelter and security with my god-given assets wasn’t too great a price. Nothing they could do could be worse than my previous experience.

Had I been scared? Of course, I had. I’d no idea what I was getting myself into. I’d had to steady my nerves with Dutch courage before I was brave enough to put a swing in my step and walk into the room full of leather-clad men. I’d worn a tight cropped tee that showed off my tits and a short tight skirt which would leave nothing to the imagination if I bent over. High heels made the most of my shapely calves and long legs. My hair gleamed and fell in tight curls around my shoulders. My eyes were smouldering due to the makeup I’d applied, and I had full, red-painted lips.

I nearly changed my mind and ran when it seemed like everyone had turned to look at me, but before I had a chance, something caught my eye. Or rather, someone.

A man standing in the middle of a group in front of a bar, charismatic, tall, and so damn muscular, his arms seemed like they were bursting from his cut. His hair, tumbling down, framed spectacular chiselled features. My body hadn’t been aroused by sex for three long years, yet as his dark eyes seemed to blaze into mine, butterflies swirled in my stomach, and, embarrassingly in this short skirt, my panties felt decidedly wet.

As he approached, he raised an eyebrow, and his mouth was curved into a slight smirk. He didn’t make any introduction or small talk. He just grabbed hold of my hand and, with gentle persuasion, tugged me in the way he wanted to go, which was straight through the rowdy clubroom, out the back to the room where he stayed.

It was there that I realised he wore the patch that denoted he was the President . And there that he brought my body back to life. Even now, just thinking about it, my thighs clench together in an effort to ease the ache. His body was proportionate and well-endowed, and he knew how to use what the deities had given him. It wasn’t a quick fuck, well, it was at first, I suppose, and then he took his time. He worshipped my body as if he were an attentive lover rather than a biker using a whore.

When we’d finished, I thought he was going to kick me out of bed, but instead, his arm curled around me, pulling me into his side.

His words, gruffly spoken, informed me, “This is all I’m offering. There ain’t gonna be no happy ending, no old lady patch or title. You’re a club girl, club property, but while we’ve got this spark between us, you’ll be exclusively mine.” He’d chuckled softly. “Don’t want the brothers dipping into your honey pot.”

I remember sleeping more peacefully that night than I’d done for a very long time. Strider, as I came to know him, wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in my life. I knew it was only a matter of time. Maybe just a few days, weeks, or months if I was lucky, but I needed this breathing space.

And, well, wow. That man was just fine.

But the end date never appeared on the horizon, and I settled into my new life. The teasing of the brothers about him not sharing his toys soon faded, and they accepted my odd position in the club. I was his, but I wasn’t. And discombobulated from all the rapid changes I’d been through—my forced marriage, the abuse my husband had put me through, then witnessing the death of my father had left my mind in a whirl. This strange situation with no pressures or expectations was exactly what I needed.

Strider was a generous lover, making sex fun, and quite happy to snuggle and relax afterward. Until he wasn’t.

Now, he rarely comes for me anymore. I don’t just miss the physical gratification but feel I’ve lost a friend.

It wasn’t like a switch being thrown. After I ended the pregnancy, for a month or so, things seemed to go back to normal, but in hindsight, I was only kidding myself. At first, I thought Strider was holding back as he didn’t want to hurt me, but then I realised he was backing away emotionally as well as physically. When days became weeks and weeks turned into months, I knew he was finished with me, though no words to that ilk had been exchanged.

It was then that I wondered whether I was going to have to throw my hat into the pool of club whores.

It wasn’t anything different from my original expectations two years back, I reminded myself. And my need for a secure base with men who’d protect me hadn’t changed. Mentally, though, I’d not only enjoyed being just one man’s plaything, and stupid of me, while I hadn’t realised I was doing it, I’d fallen in love.

Going with someone else would feel like betrayal.

But it had never happened. No one asked me to put out, even though they could all see Strider no longer wanted anything to do with me. It was as if I was still somehow branded as his.

Then, as now, I feel like a fraud, here under false pretences. I make myself useful—cleaning around the club, cooking, and stepping into catfights between the other girls. But even I’m not fooling myself. It’s nothing worth what they’re giving to me—security and protection, a place to hide. I’ve no idea how long it’s going to last.

For the present, I’ll make the most of it. And, while it’s probably stupid, I’m pinning all my hopes on being able to write books.

Having sent my first draft to Sheri, I can’t relax. My fingernails are bitten down to the quick. Despite building up my expectation to be disappointed, I can’t help but hope she finds at least some merit in it. Something I can build on, perhaps.

It’s less than twenty-four hours after I sent her the email, when my phone trills again, and it’s her calling me back.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Is it that bad? You couldn’t finish it?”

“Couldn’t finish it?” She snorts down the line. “Hell, girl, I finished it. I’ve never read a book so fast. Ask Jake. I stayed up all night as I couldn’t put it down. It’s freaking fantastic.”

I shake my head as if to clear my ears. “Wh-what?”

“It’s amazing. Best book I’ve read in ages. I want more.”

It’s taking me a few seconds to process her words. Is she just being kind? “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” She chuckles down the line. “The story is amazing. The plot draws you in, and everything’s so realistic to this life.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I didn’t even dare dream of a reaction like that. “You didn’t find anything wrong?”

“Well, sure, there were a lot of typos and a few words I think you got wrong. But that’s nothing a good editor can’t fix.”

Where the hell do I find an editor? I don’t ask that question aloud as another is more important. “How could I afford someone like that, Sheri? Those professionals would cost thousands.”

“Er,” she starts, hesitantly. “I’ve got some ideas if you don’t mind giving me a few days to see if I can get some help for you?”

“Honey, I’d give you a year if you thought it would help.” Internally, I feel a buzz of excitement begin to grow. Sheri, a woman I admire and who shares my love of the MC genre, actually likes my book. Actually, she thinks it could be published.

“I’ll be in touch,” she tells me. “Take care of yourself.”

“Take care of you,” I respond automatically.

As it turned out, though, it was she who took care of me. God knows how she found time with a baby, but she joined Facebook groups, became friendly with PAs and authors, and found me an editor whom I could afford. Having read the book, she knew my description of the hero and looked through all the stock photo sites to find a cheap photo that matched him to a T. And then, somehow, she found a cover designer.

Before I knew it, I had a formatter, and a book that I could load up and send off into the big bad world. I swear I felt as nervous as any mother bidding farewell to their firstborn on the first day at school.

Book one wasn’t a bestseller or anything like that, but the sales and reviews were enough to encourage me. Once I’d started writing, I found it addictive and hard to stop, so more books flowed. As each added to the series, I started to make a few bucks. And hey, to my amazement, I soon found I was turning a profit.

I owe so much to Sheri. I swear she knows my books better than I know them myself and always points out inconsistencies between the stories.

Fast forward six months, and I’ve just published my third book.

Even more exciting, Sheri encouraged me to get on the waitlist for the next Motorcycle, Mobsters and Mayhem signing, and I’ve just received an invite.

Me. What the fuck?

When I first met Sheri, I was jealous she’d been to the signing that I’d have liked to have gone to myself. As a reader, of course. And now? Now I’m going to be attending as a freaking bonafide author!

Sure, there are a few ways life could be better. But this? Abused wife to club whore to author? There’s surely little that could be better than that.

Nowadays, Sheri and I communicate by sending messages, so a phone call takes me by surprise. I answer with a twin sense of anticipation and dread as I’ve just sent her the first draft of my fourth book.

Instead of answering with a polite “hello”, I dive straight in. “Is it dreadful?”

“Fuck, no.” She laughs. “But…”

“But?” I prompt when the silence stretches out.

“Oh, Jas. You broke my heart with that book. It’s you and Strider, isn’t it? Or, at least, the way you hoped it would have worked out.”

I swallow hard, and my voice is as low as a whisper. “Have I really been so obvious?”

She doesn’t reply for a moment. “I only made the connection because I know you. It won’t be to anyone else. Since no one in the club is going to read your book, there’ll be no one who’ll suss it out. It’s an amazing story—bittersweet, so suspenseful, so many ups and downs and then a happy ending. You really have an amazing imagination.”

Yeah. I have an imagination, all right. Maybe the problem is that I didn’t rely on it too much when I wrote this particular book. But as Sheri says, no one who actually knows me will read it.

My secrets are safe.

And so is my foolish admission that I fell in love with Strider.