Chapter 1 Carter
CARTER
We all have a story of why we became who we are.
Mine is a bit…peculiar. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had particular tastes.
Hobbies, music, women. Everything I enjoyed never quite seemed like what the folks around me liked too.
I’ve got a handful of memories from my childhood, playing cat and mouse with my two older sisters, but I don’t think I was that unhinged back then, though.
But after the event, my brain rewired itself, and I guess that’s how I became me.
The silent psychopath most folks were afraid of.
It didn’t matter that I was trying as hard as I could to appear normal, read facial expressions, and observe body languages, people could always tell something was off. And they were right about that, but it didn’t mean I liked it either way.
Having no social cues sucks. Not knowing if someone is genuinely laughing or terrified sucks.
It made my life so empty, all I had left was my craft.
And by craft, I mean torturing any men who wanted to hurt the club slowly.
It was my art form, each cut a way to ease my pain, each punch like words I could never say out loud.
It was my outlet to breathe when I couldn’t, my work, my reputation.
It was.
Was.
‘Cause everything changed a year ago. I knew I needed to change. With every year spent on this earth, something was building up in me, and I knew in my guts that there wouldn’t be a way out of my madness if I didn’t find a goal strong enough to not turn into a full-blown emotionless robot.
I had started therapy, I had talks with my brothers at the club, but still, I was lacking the motivation. Something, or…someone.
And this someone appears to be a woman. Usually I find girls I like and stalk them.
I rather do that because who in their right mind would ever want to be with me?
Then I offer them gifts on their doorstep, and well, that’s usually when I have to stop ‘cause that’s when I get a slap in the face.
But this one is different. Usually I go for girls of my world: strippers, barmaids, chicks who know what they’re getting into with bikers like us.
But this time, she couldn't be farther from my world.
Ten months ago, I was at the gas station, putting fuel into my bike, when another car parked at the pump next to mine.
Family car, kid in the backseat, nothing special about it.
Until I saw her.
Mid-length chestnut hair, small figure and brown eyes, with fuller lips than I had ever seen.
She had a pair of jeans hugging her in all the right places and a small red T-shirt showing off her belly button.
The hair on the back of my head rose as I watched her move with grace and efficiency while checking on her kid at the same time.
There was something about her I couldn't put my finger on.
So I followed her. And I kept doing it for months.
After talking to my VP and Prez about it, I stopped for a while, thinking I was jeopardizing the peace of this woman.
But after six months of staying away, I had to come back and watch her from afar.
Never too close. Never close enough that she’d be afraid for her safety.
I didn’t want that, ever. I just needed to watch her, get my fix like a drug addict.
Once per week, that was my rule. But it all changed today when I saw this guy enter her house.
I knew instantly that something was off.
So I stepped out of my shadows and came to check on her.
LANA
Groceries are done, cleaning too. You just got one more round of laundry, and I think that’s it. Great. Girl, you did it, and in under two hours.
Nancy would roll her eyes at my daily to-do lists and time management apps I use religiously but that’s the only way I found to make it all work.
When you’re a single mom with a four-year-old and a full time job, everything needs to be written on the kitchen wall’s white board.
I fall gracelessly on my gray couch, lifting my feet on the living-room round table.
I love this place.
My place.
With all the little knick knacks Ben never let me display before.
I bought a lot of plants, like a lot. Especially tropical ones, not that it fits with Knoxville weather, but I don’t mind.
I’ll try to keep them alive as long as I can.
After watching a few YouTube tutorials, I figured out how to install wooden shelves next to the window.
It wasn’t as hard as my ex-husband used to make it out to be.
Three shelves filled with books, frames of Noah and me, and rocks he found in the forest on our last walk.
I sink in the soft pink and purple cushions and think of my little man with a smile.
I guess it’s just you and me now, Noah.
You and me against the world.
He’s at Nancy’s house, a block away, playing with his cousins while I steal a few hours to myself.
I’m about to close my eyes and rest for a moment when the unmistakable sound of the front door creaks open.
I jolt upright. I always keep it locked.
Always. The idea that someone, him, or anyone else could come to hurt us never really leaves.
Call it trauma or PTSD, it doesn’t matter.
There are things in this life I’ll never take for granted again.
Safety. A roof I don’t have to be afraid to live under.
I move on instinct, rush to the kitchen, and grab the biggest knife I own.
When I turn to the intruder, the familiar face staring back at me sends a shudder down my spine.
Ben.
“Hey,” he says casually, his brown hair carefully styled, wearing his usual lawyer suit and that Colgate smile.
“How did you get in? The door was locked.” My voice wavers, and my hand, still clutching the knife, trembles slightly.
“Nope. You must’ve forgotten.” He smirks, gawking at the knife, hands buried in the pockets of his black slacks. Did I? I did take the garbage out. Could I have forgotten to lock the door afterward?
“What are you doing here?” Finding my composure, I pull a strain of hair behind my ear, drop the knife down on the counter and rest my hand on my hips.
I’ve been here for a year, and since the divorce, he isn’t supposed to visit Noah outside of his visiting days.
And still, he can only take him for the day and drive him back before seven.
One weekend a month, that’s all he got, because guess what?
That’s all he asked for. It pains me for my son that his father didn’t even want to spend more time with him, but at least Noah and I can live peacefully.
I mean, as peacefully as we can when he doesn’t show up unannounced.
It happens often.
Too often.
He’s my ex-husband, but somehow, Ben seems to have forgotten it, calling me when he’s feeling down and sending me “I love you” texts.
I never thought I could have escaped him, or that he would have agreed to divorce me.
But I guess he must have gotten scared about me bringing up that he was hitting me to his colleagues and staining his reputation as a wonderful, kind, successful family man.
I want him out of my life. And since he’s Noah’s father, I guess all I can hope for is for him to respect what the judge has decided for us.
One weekend a month. Why can’t he respect that?
“Looking good, baby.” He lets his eyes drag from head to toe like he owns me.
It’s warm today, so I’m wearing high-waisted jean shorts and a light white blouse.
I like feeling pretty, even as a mom. I don’t see why I should give up my femininity just because I gave birth.
It matters. It reminds me to love myself.
To put me first, after too many years of doing the opposite.
I sigh.
Baby.
“Ben,” I say, inclining my head slightly, keeping my tone as even as I can.
“What are you doing here? You know Noah’s at Nancy’s most Saturday mornings.
You can’t just show up and expect us to drop everything for you.
” My voice falters a little. I try my best not to glance at the knife.
You never know with a man like him. Things can go from calm to chaos without warning.
Standing up to Ben is still new to me. And I don’t know if speaking those words out loud is going to earn me silence…
or a fist. He lifts a shoulder, his expensive suit not creasing one bit.
“Thought we could go get some ice cream, just the two of us? Like old times.” Ben grins, bouncing on his feet, hands in the pockets of his trousers.
I’ve never liked the way suits make him look a decade older than he is. I know most women love them but not me.
“Like old times?” I murmur. You mean like when you used to beat me in our kitchen every night after dessert? “No, Ben, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I try to stay as nice as possible to avoid him snapping on me.
Keep him happy.
Stay safe.
“Come on, don’t be like this. It will be good for us, for Noah. To reconnect.” He always brings that up. Do it for Noah. Be a good mom. Playing the guilt card as if denying his pleas would mean being a bad mother. And I hate that he is messing with my head.
He’s a lawyer, Lana. He’s good at what he does.
Don’t fall back into his trap.
“No, I just told you. You cannot drop by when you feel like it and ask me out like that. We’re divorced, Ben.”
“You’re my wife,” he states, stepping toward me as I take a step back, my heart racing faster than it should, the same adrenaline pulsing in my veins, preparing me for the hit.
“It’s over, Ben. You have to get over it,” I mumble between trembling lips, my hands falling next to me, ready to protect my face.