Gator (Valhalla's Heathens MC #2)

1. Emma

Chapter one

Emma

It seems my taste in men hasn’t changed.

I probably have my dad to thank for that.

If I said that to his face, he’d shrug and smirk, spouting off a faux lecture about being “God’s gift to women.

” Fucking bikers. I knew he was hiding something from me.

The first man since Fijor’s dad, and this is what I get: another damn biker.

Granted, I haven’t really tried dating since that man.

It’s not like I was out looking for a nice banker or lawyer, even with my mother shoving any available man with a six-figure-a-year salary from her social circle my way.

I stand in the kitchen of Devin’s apartment, white-knuckling the buttery-soft black leather in my fists.

It was tossed on his dining room table alongside his wallet and keys.

I knew instantly what it was: a kutte. The back says he’s a member of the Devils Riders Arkansas, and the front says his name is Snake and his position is VP.

Ironically, he’s not the first Vice President I’ve been involved with.

This isn't good, Emma. His road name is fitting, considering he’s a snake in the grass who has seemed to slither up and bite me on the ass.

I bite my lip and close my eyes, realizing what a grave mistake I’ve made in trusting this man. This is so freaking bad!

I don't know much about club politics, but I know enough to tell you that the Devil’s Riders are a rival club to my father's, and that their Mother Chapter is here in Little Rock. Granted, you can figure that out just by watching the news and documentaries on TV. All of which I try desperately to avoid. There’s just something about watching the media paint your family in a bad light that makes the back of your throat go dry and taste like ash.

I know these people personally. I know the men do illegal things.

I’m not stupid. All I can tell you is that what I see on TV and what I experience inside the safety net of the compound are two separate things.

My father is a second-generation Valhalla’s Heathen MC patch holder, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, a founding member of the club.

My dad currently serves as the club’s treasurer.

Although they call me club royalty, I didn’t grow up immersed in club culture.

My mother, Donna, left my father after years of my father refusing to make my mother his ol’ lady.

He refused to put his name on the line for her, choosing only to marry her as a civilian wife and not bring her to any club events.

When a brother puts a patch on a woman, he becomes responsible for all her decisions, and it reflects on him.

My father refused to give my mother that status.

That rift in the relationship left him gone a lot.

My father never loved my mother; of that I’m sure, but he was always a good father to me.

He wasn’t bad to her; he provided for her, treated her well, and bought her a nice three-bedroom house in town, but it still wasn’t enough for her.

Looking back, I know my dad saw through her shit to who she really was.

Thinking she could find greener grass elsewhere, she got fed up one night and booked it back to Arkansas, carting a small child not much older than Fijor is now.

She chose Arkansas, pawning me off on her parents so she could lick her wounds in peace.

I truly believe the only reason she took me with her was to spite my dad and ensure she got a monthly check.

After returning, she began her hunt for a new cash cow, correction, a “new husband,” refusing to be alone and, for once in her life, to stand on her own two feet.

Providing for herself was never part of Donna’s game plan.

Over the years, I saw the smoke screen my mother pieced together.

I figured out that money was probably a major driving force behind her getting together with my father in the first place.

She used her pregnancy to secure her place in his life.

My mother may be conniving, but she is not stupid.

Knowing that family is at the foundation of his MC life, a Heathen man wouldn’t walk away from a child.

What better way to trap a Heathen than to get knocked up by one?

My mother never treated me badly, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve seen our relationship for what it is: a meal ticket from my father.

Mother of the year was only something she pretended to be in public.

Damsel in distress, Donna. Preferring to let men provide for her, my mother used her looks and assets to her advantage and ended up catching both husband number two and husband number three, both richer than the last, while leaving me in the care of my grandparents most of the time.

My mother left Oklahoma in the rearview mirror and only looked back long enough to apply her ruby-red lipstick.

She spoke to my father only when it concerned her next child support payment.

I’ve looked back in that rearview mirror every day of my life, yet because of the chicken shit trait I apparently inherited from Donna, I have not been back since the summer my life started and stopped.

No matter the distance between my father and me, he’s always been my best friend, and I can call him anytime I need him.

We may live in different states, but he’s my north star, always constant.

My dad has come to visit me here because I can’t bear the thought of going back to that state.

The memories are too raw there. Hello, abandonment issues, party of one.

That’s why I left. I was too chicken shit to stick it out in Oklahoma, refusing to be like my mother and chase after a man who clearly does not want me just because I had his kid.

I refused to trap him like my mother trapped my father.

Over the years, my father has never asked who Fijor’s father is.

I suspect he knows but wants to stay ignorant, because if he knew, he would be forced to act.

Touching an MC princess without the father’s blessing is a serious offense in their culture.

My mother, on the other hand, is a different story.

We have screamed and shouted about the subject.

Donna has called me every name in the book to guilt-trip or chastise me, even going so far as to call me an idiot for not collecting money from, and I quote, “the mother fucker that abandoned me in my time of need.” It’s always funny to watch the person who really caused your trauma try to manipulate you.

I didn’t want to be owed; I wanted to be loved.

I wanted Trey to be with me because he wanted to, not because of some fucked-up sense of duty.

I refused to be anything like Donna and refused to admit Fijor’s father's name to anyone, including Trey. I miss that man. Neither my heart nor my pussy has gotten the memo that we’re supposed to hate him for breaking it off with us.

Breaking it off is such a simple phrase for what truly transpired.

That man ruined me down to my soul and crushed my heart under his black motorcycle boots beyond repair.

Trey will forever be the only man to own my soul.

After Trey took my heart out and stomped all over it, I ran back to Little Rock with my tail between my legs as fast as I could. At least I took off running with a backbone and a strong determination to do it on my own, without any man’s help except my own father’s.

I will never give another man the opportunity to be that close to me again. I refuse to let anyone have that kind of power over me ever again, because if I don’t let them in, they can’t hurt me. Right?

The last summer I spent in Oklahoma changed me forever.

It both built and broke me. The summer after I turned eighteen, I went to spend it with my father.

I was looking for a safe place to rebel.

I wanted to learn to fly, to learn how to live, not just go through the motions.

But that wasn’t all I found. That summer, I thought I found the love of my life.

I thought I had found my permanent family and my life.

I thought I was going to live on that compound in rural Crescent, Oklahoma, surrounded by friends and family, in the arms of the man who was my other half for the rest of my life, raising his babies during the day and riding on the back of his Harley at night.

But it all came crashing down around me.

Next door is a physical reminder of that summer, a mini version of his father.

The Anderson genes don’t just run deep; they decimate and conquer any other contributing genes, much like the Anderson men themselves.

Every time I look at Fijor, I am convinced I only grew him in a human Easy-Bake oven, and that his father contributed a hundred percent of his genetics, because the words “carbon copy” don’t do justice to how much Fijor takes after his father.

I came over to see if Devin wanted to have dinner with us before he left for the night shift job, as a bouncer for a night club, he supposedly had. Starting to think that was a lie. I let myself into his apartment and saw the Kutte on the table.

I’ve been seeing Devin for just over two months now, and we haven’t even kissed.

He moved into the apartment next door about three months ago.

We first crossed paths in the stairwell when I was lugging in groceries, and he offered to help.

I let him, and things kind of took off from there.

It’s not love or anything, but I’ve liked having him around. I don’t feel so alone.