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

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

STRIDER

F lanked by Shotgun and followed by the sergeant-at-arms and enforcer, I head directly back to the club. I’m riding by instinct, barely conscious of the road disappearing beneath my wheels. My emotions are all over the place.

Another man might want to shoot the balls off any men who’d organised such an intervention, but the VP, Buzz, and Tequila are not only my brothers-in-arms, but my best friends. They’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember. Initially annoyed, I’d quickly realised they wouldn’t have said anything had I not let things, and myself, get out of control. And for that, the person I’m most angry with is me. I wouldn’t have been made prez if I wasn’t levelheaded in all situations, especially those where the outcome could be that men would live or die. The last few months, though, my temper’s been short, my patience non-existent.

I’m embarrassed that they’ve identified something I’d refused to admit to myself, that my problems all harp back to my personal life, which should never have been allowed to fall back onto the club. Hell, I managed to keep it separate for years until Jasmine, who was only supposed to be a pleasant diversion in the sack. But she’d crept under my skin, and I couldn’t handle it. When, well, when she, no, we , my brothers are right, had made that mistake, inside, I was falling to pieces, and my exasperation with myself affected my performance in the club.

Now, I’ve another sentiment to contend with. Fear. At first, I was surprised but delighted for Jasmine that she’d been writing books. Good for her. I always knew she was too clever to bury herself in a life as a club girl. But my officers would never have brought it to my attention if it was only that she’d been working for herself on the club’s dime—she does enough for us, tending bar and keeping the other whores in line. But having been around the club for three years, she won’t have been blind to some of the more shady things that have gone down. Some of which might make excellent material for a novel. Fuck it. Did she know too much? Has she stepped over the line?

What do I do if she has? If she was a man telling tales on us, she’d pay with her life. If she’s committed a crime, I’m the prez, and I can’t be weak if punishment needs to be meted out.

How bad could it be? Could she draw the attention of law enforcement to us or have given away secrets that our enemies would love? Has she talked about our armaments, strengths or weaknesses? For Shotgun, Buzz, and Tequila to be concerned, it has to be serious.

Still, on autopilot, I ride through the gate that the prospect has opened and back into my parking spot. With just a raise of my chin, I leave my companions, walk through the clubhouse, grabbing a bottle of Jack from the bar, and continue on out back to the motel-like setup that houses our rooms. I offer some curt response when brothers greet me. My single focus is on getting some privacy so I can start to read.

As I’ve a house off compound that I tend to stay in most nights, and a life outside the club, my room here is just like that of my brothers’—a place to lay my head and not much else. Unlocking the door, I step inside, taking off my boots and slinging my cut casually over the back of a chair, grateful my brothers can’t see the disrespect I show to it. Right now, I’m too worried to care. I take the book I’d been given out of my pocket, regarding it like a venomous snake that could strike me at any moment.

It seems innocuous enough. A tattooed, bare-chested man on the cover, the author's name, J Frobisher, under the title.

Twisting the cap off the bottle, I take a long swig, then settle myself on the bed. As I flick to the first page, I wince at the number of words, unable to remember the last time I read anything that wasn’t a bike spec, nor something without text being broken up by pictures. Damn, it’s going to be a long night. Then, with a deep sigh, I turn to the first page. What the fuck has she written that’s got my officers’ balls in a twist?

I bark a laugh. Hell, I didn’t expect that. From the first paragraph, I’m drawn into a picture of a motorcycle club, that, yeah, could be similar to ours, but it’s not. This is the fourth book in the series, and it seems a number of brothers have already been caught in the old lady trap. But not the prez. And hell, I can relate to that.

There are even cute babies being born and kids hanging around. I suppose I could see why someone might be worried about that, but I can’t think Jasmine’s writing is going to infect the club. Oh, I bark a laugh when I see one of the brothers works at a crematorium—and hell, why didn’t I think of that? Great way of body disposal. Maybe I should ask Jasmine for advice about running my club. Turning onto my back, I hold the book above me, take another sip of Jack, and find I’m really enjoying myself.

She’s talented as fuck. Her words just roll off the page. It’s so easy to read, simplistic language perhaps, but in a manner that I can relate to. Instead of being bored, of forcing myself to read on, I find myself turning page after page thrilled to see what comes next. Uh-uh. Fuck, what an asshole. I start to read about the hero, or anti-hero perhaps. He’s the president of the club, and if I were to meet him in real life, I’d call him a dick.

He treats the main girl in the story like shit. How does she put up with him? But as I turn the pages faster, my attention caught, I read about how opposites attract, about how from the first moment he’d met her, the prez wanted no other woman. But rather than admit how smitten he was, he convinced himself, her, and everyone around him that all he wanted was sex. Of course, while insisting she be only his…

Hang on.

Rolling over onto one elbow, I take another mouthful of Jack, which seems to sour as soon as it hits my stomach. No wonder they told me to read this.

The gist of the story is the unrequited love of the club girl toward the prez, and how she lived for his scant praise and compliments. At first, it could read like she was belittling herself, but she’s clearly the more intelligent one in the relationship, recognising it for what it is. Reading between the lines and knowing how much he wants her, even though he doesn’t want to admit it.

The sex between them is off-the-charts hot, as if he’s using his body to tell her what his mind cannot. I try to skim over the details but am soon dragged in. As I read how he pleases her, my hand reaches down, undoes my zipper and frees my dick. Hell, the words transport me back in time, and my mind conjures up Jasmine’s hands on me. I read on, but now it’s not the fictional characters having their fun. All I can picture is Jas as she takes my cock in her mouth. She uses suction, drawing me deep, then releasing me, her hands stroking what she can’t take in. Her teeth rasp gently. She brings me almost to the peak, then backs off. Lifting briefly away, her knowing grin lights her face until she goes in for the kill—or the petite mort , the little death, and I’ve no chance to stop the eruption that floods from my dick and soaks the sheets.

My breathing is heavy, my lungs starved for air. Only her. Only Jasmine. No one else has brought me to such a peak. And, it seems, she doesn’t even need to be present in my room to make me see stars.

Closing my eyes, I try to get the real life woman out of my mind and go back to the book. Telling myself firmly this is not about me and her. This is fiction. It’s all made up in her mind.

I read on, hating how the prez is pulling away when all he ever wants is right there in front of his eyes. How he denies his emotions until… Until, he’s forced to own up to his feelings when the condom splits.

A pregnancy scare.

I stop reading. Memories flood into my mind as I go back in time to that fateful morning.

“I’m pregnant.”

I’m stunned. Lost for words. Then only one thing comes to me. “You can’t be.”

It’s impossible for me to miss the hope in Jasmine’s eyes. The optimism that I’ll be okay with the predicament she’s putting me in. But there is no way she can understand.

Becoming pregnant takes two. I gloved up and used my own condoms. Despite that, for some reason, my brain screams it’s all her fault. This can’t be happening. Not now, not with her. It’s the worst possible time.

The solution is obvious. “Get rid of it.”

I don’t bother to discuss it with her or ask for her opinion. Making it an easy process, I used my connections and got the tablets that would solve the problem fast. Ignoring her obvious distress, I trust her when she agrees to take the medication. I can’t explain how I can’t do anything else or consider any other alternative. To let her carry my child is too big a betrayal.

Only a few days later and she confirms, “It’s done.”

From that fateful moment, I knew something inside Jasmine had died. Though she tried to hide her grief, I know she was shattered. I couldn’t even comfort her as I wasn’t able to turn back time.

I’d had no choice.

My eyes are leaking, and I angrily wipe the moisture away. I couldn’t have done anything different. I made the only decision I could at the time. I can barely bring myself to keep reading, but I submit to my torture as in Jasmine’s fictional world, the prez steps up, comes to his senses in ways I never have, and declares his undying love for the club girl. Eight months later, they welcome a beautiful baby girl.

I slam the book closed even though I’ve only read halfway.

Could that have been us? There’s no doubt in my mind that while the characters' names are different, and the club bears no relation to the Wretched Soulz, that she’s been writing the story that she wished could have been hers in real life.

I’ve never explained to her my reasons. And worse, my own guilt at my actions made me keep my distance, so both of us dealt with our loss on our own.

My gut clenches as I admit how much I hurt her. Unable to bear seeing the grief at my own loss mirrored in her eyes, and knowing I was the cause of it, kept me away. It was easier not to talk to her than face up to what I’d done. I’d tried to justify my behaviour to myself— she’s just a club girl. She knows the score. No strings, no attachments.

The truth was my own feelings ran deep for her, emotions I couldn’t allow. Having never asked her, I told myself that what I felt was one-sided. It was different for her.

Me? I knew I could cope with things I couldn’t have. I’d been doing that for a very long time. But Jasmine? Well, she would be fine.

I’d been both wrong and blind. This book? I can feel her in every word, every sentence, every page. This is the longing deep from her heart. This is the ending she wanted. The prez and the club girl making a new start.

Eventually, the combination of the Jack I’ve consumed and my emotional turmoil has me passing out. Surprisingly, I wake with my mind full of clarity and a decision about a course of action I’ve not considered before.

While there are reasons things between us can never be as apparently we both wish they could, at least I can give Jasmine an explanation as to why. She deserves that, at least.