Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
brONWYN
Oh God.
I wake up this morning with a start, panicking as I wonder where I am.
Then as the events of yesterday evening come back to me, I look to my side, simply staring at Trip.
While I’m scared of our future and can’t even start to imagine how to navigate it, or even how I’m going to be able to keep him away from our father, I don’t doubt for a second that I was right to bring him with me.
Of course, a bikers’ clubhouse is not the ideal environment for him.
My face flushes red as I recall exactly what I’d witnessed last night - unsubtle displays of live pornography out in the open.
I’d certainly discovered why Dad always told me to stay away from bikers.
Strangely, while I was embarrassed, I didn’t feel threatened, and though I couldn’t understand how the women could let their bodies be used so publicly, it didn’t affect me other than perhaps the offence to my eyes.
Some part of me was intrigued. How could the women enjoy what the men were doing to them?
Surely, their moans of pleasure and shouts of encouragement were put on?
I have a very different interpretation of what the union of a man and a woman looks like, and it’s certainly not like I witnessed, with one of the girls riding Freak like a cowgirl with reckless abandonment and joy.
I’d had my first drink last night. How is it I don’t feel like I’ve stepped onto the pathway to hell?
Even after I’d turned twenty-one, Dad’s rants about the evils of alcohol – which didn’t stop Mom and him drinking – made me too scared of him smelling the fumes on my breath, to experiment on the rare occasions I went out with friends.
Last night I fell off the wagon.
The first drink Heathen made me barely tasted any different from plain lemonade, albeit with a slightly odd flavour I didn’t find unpleasant.
The second had had more of the taste which I found difficult to describe.
The third, I suspect, had had hardly any lemonade at all.
But it hadn’t put me off, quite the reverse.
I had started to get a buzz that was really quite pleasant, freeing my thoughts from their usual constraints, until I began to acknowledge feelings I had no business feeling.
I’d always admired Short before, but last night, my eyes kept being drawn to him.
His shaved head, that bandana he always wears, that short trimmed beard, and the multiple tattoos on his body make up a package that would tick every box in my fantasy boyfriend list were I to have such a thing.
And his size. I almost swooned, feeling so protected just by being near him.
At one point, unnoticed, I’d leaned closer, breathing in air tinged with his perfume.
The nurse in me would have dismissed it as body odour and soap, but the relaxed girl who was enjoying the effects of the first drops of alcohol she’d ever imbibed found his scent just as intoxicating.
What would it be like to be enfolded in his strong arms?
To feel his warmth surround me? And what the hell is this strange feeling that sets my core tingling?
Even in my alcoholic haze, I realised this wasn’t rational thinking, and struggled to find an explanation.
Eventually, I found one. I was looking at him through the actual bottom of a beer glass.
That thought hit me as hilarious. It was then that I couldn’t hold back the giggle that had erupted, my usual reticence being lost. I remember earning a sharp look from both Saint and Short.
Luckily, even fuzzy-headed, I’d realised the need to retreat and go to bed.
Now, this morning, I hope that Short had had no idea what was going through my head last night. Hopefully I’d adequately answered the questions they were plying to me, and without betraying any indication of the direction of the thoughts in my mind.
Uh uh. No more shandies for me.
Did I really put my hand on Short’s arm when I leaned in to talk to him?
Hell, if I did, how can I ever face him again?
Suddenly, a foot kicks me in my side. Trip is no longer sleeping.
He seems very much awake. And I’d wasted the time remembering last night, when I should be focused on today’s problems, starting with the most important one.
How’s Trip going to cope with being out of a familiar environment and with only me by his side?
Last night, he was tired and more compliant than he normally is.
I have suspicions he’ll be very different when he finds the extent of his new reality.
The boy who’s focused on routine is quickly going to discover, that here, neither he nor I have any control of the situation.
He sits up, looks around, his eyes wide open, and his body trembling as he has no recognition of where we are. Hoping he understands, I try to reassure him. “We’re at our new friend’s house.” I leave the word “club” off, so as not to confuse him further.
His face blanks as he processes my answer, and then… is that an upward curve I see to his lips? Could he be happy he’s not at home with Mom and Dad? Another glance at him shows I must have been imagining things, his expression is now blank once again.
Whether he misses our parents or not, I vow neither he nor I will ever go home, even if I have no idea how I’m going to manage that. In my ideal world, from here on, Trip will only have me to watch over him.
Though I’ve no idea what good parenting looks like, or how I’ll be able to handle a troubled boy.
Trip’s stomach growls. I nod sagely. Getting him fed seems as good a place as any to start.
I suppress my own nervousness at the thought of walking down into the clubroom, not knowing who we’re going to meet at this hour, or even where to get food in this place.
Feigning a brightness I don’t feel, I make a promise I don’t know if I can keep.
“Let’s get ready and go downstairs and find some breakfast.” Surely these men have to eat and must have the makings of breakfast somewhere.
When I’ve visited before in my professional capacity, there was often the smell of bacon cooking.
Trip starts to roll off the bed. Remembering it’s much higher than what he’s used to, I slide off and rush around his side to help him. Once I’ve got him steadied, I notice he’s holding his hand over his crotch.
“Here.” I open the door to the en suite. “Go potty, and then brush your teeth.” I send up thanks that I’d remembered to pack his toothbrush and mine. We’ll make do with using Short’s toothpaste for now and his towel. I grimace, but on checking, it doesn’t look dirty.
When Trip’s finished his ablutions, I dress him in some of the few clean clothes I was able to bring with us and tell him to wait for me.
Then I rush through the same process, not wanting to give Trip time to think about wandering off.
I don’t think he would, but he’s out of familiar territory, and I don’t know how he’ll react.
At least, so far, he hasn’t had a meltdown. Thank heaven for small mercies.
We’ve slept late, I can tell by my phone. Maybe all the bikers will have gone to whatever they do for work. I roll my eyes in my na?ve expectation that bikers will keep nine-to-five working hours. They’ll be more likely out committing murder and mayhem, or that’s according to my dad.
Trying to step quietly in case they’re still sleeping, I lead Trip to the staircase, then descend, my heart in my mouth as the, thankfully, almost empty clubroom comes into view.
Almost empty, except for the man I hope I didn’t disgrace myself in front of last night, and the two prospects who seem to be in a rush to head out the door.
Think of Trip, I remind myself. My embarrassment doesn’t matter, nor does any opinion Short might have. Trip needs feeding. That’s all I should focus on.
I try not to meet Short’s eyes, but it’s difficult when he spots us when we’re only halfway down the stairs.
“Morning,” he barks. It’s not quite a smile on his face, but his words seem welcoming.
Having descended the rest of the steps, I approach him, willing the butterflies in my stomach to subside, and return his greeting. “Good morning. Is there anywhere I can get Trip some breakfast?”
“Fuck, of course. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” He beckons and leads the way to a door behind the bar that I quickly find leads to a kitchen.
Pulling up abruptly, I startle when I see half a dozen bikers or more sitting at a large farmhouse-type wooden table, and two strangely dressed women working a stove.
Strangely? Wrong word. Inadequate is better.
Attire that, in my view, doesn’t match with cooking.
Shorts so skimpy I can see the curves of their asses, and…
have they not ever heard of bras? I have to resist the urge to cover Trip’s eyes.
“Well, fuck. Don’t they make a pair?” Rattler snorts a laugh. “Is this a new look?” He holds on to his belly.
Beside him, I see Winchester and a man I don’t recognise, exchanging awkward looks and wincing.
“What?” Rattler notices he’s the only one finding mirth in the situation. “Just look at them. They’ve each got a pair of blackened eyes.”
There’s another woman, one who meets my eyes kindly, and one who’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with no cleavage or nipples on view.
Relieved, I recognise her. She’s Pippa, whom, with my dad, I’d given medical attention to when we were called in to treat her after a bad accident.
And who, I grow red as I remember, was a victim of Dad’s wandering hands.
Back then, I hadn’t known what would happen to her. I’d had the suspicion, even while we were treating her, that the bikers wouldn’t have cared less if she’d died. I’m glad she seems to have found her place here, and, compared to the other women, at least she looks normal.