HARD: MC Romance (FF MC Romance Book 1) (17 page)

THIRTY-THREE

Nick

I couldn’t claim to have fallen in love before, so identifying what it was I felt and giving it a label wasn’t something I found easy to do. And, to be truthful, with me being a big bad-ass biker, even if I was in love, I probably wouldn’t want to admit it.

But I was able to identify pride.

And I was proud of having Peyton in my life.

I turned the corner and rolled up the street. Not in a million lifetimes would I have guessed I’d be doing what I was doing.

“Why won’t you just tell me?” she asked.

“Because it’s a surprise.”

“I think that’s chicken-shit,” she said.

I released the throttle and coasted down the street. “See the light blue one over there?”

She leaned forward and rested her chin on my shoulder. “The one with the big rock garden?”

“Yep.”

“What about it?”

“Brent Houseman lived there. We were buddies in high school.”

“You used to live around here?”

“Yep.”

“Cool”

The bike slowed to an almost stop, but I had half a block or so to go, so I rolled on a little throttle. “The yellow one over there was where Becky Tharp lived. She was a cheerleader. And, no, I didn’t bang her. She was a bitch.”

“Nice to know,” she said.

As we came closer, I felt nervous, and really, nothing made me nervous. Hell, I had walked into abandoned buildings that were filled with men who were armed and wanted to kill me, and I wasn’t as nervous as I was with her.

“See the white one there on the right?”

“Yep.”

“That’s where I grew up.”

Her grip on my waist tightened, and she leaned forward. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Until when? When did you move out?”

I shifted into neutral and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street, thirty feet or so from the drive. The exhaust rumbled a low drone as it idled, echoing the sound of our arrival for all to hear.

“When I went to war, pretty much.”

“Oh wow. Where do your parents live now?”

I motioned toward the house. “Still live right there.”

“You’re not. Were you. Is that where we’re going?”

“Yep. If you’re ready, that is.”

“Nick, you shit-head. Really?”

“If you’re ready. If you’re not, tell me now so I can get the fuck out of here before either of them see me.”

“I’m wearing shorts, Chuck’s and a shitty shirt,” she complained.

“You look cute,” I assured her. “Yes, or no?”

“I mean, I want to, but--”

“Yes, or no?”

“I would love to, but I look like--”

I pulled in the clutch, shifted into gear, and released it. As the bike got even with the drive, she slapped my shoulder.

“Yes.”

I got on the brakes, but it was too late. I rolled past and had to turn around in the middle of the street to get into the drive.

We parked, and I shut off the bike. “Ready?”

“Oh boy.” She took off her helmet, brushed the wrinkles from her shirt, and adjusted her ponytail. “Okay.”

I hung my helmet on the bars. “Let’s do it.”

Together we nervously walked up the walk. After stepping on the porch, I rapped my knuckles against the door three times.

“Enter!”

And I opened the door.

THIRTY-FOUR

Peyton

Nick opened the door and I stepped inside. I hadn’t seen my father since Christmas. After his relocation to North Carolina, the holidays were the only time I saw him or my brothers. I hoped meeting Nick’s mother and father, although traumatic, would provide me comfort.

I stepped to Nick’s side. He rested his left arm on my shoulder, and sighed. “Pop, this is Peyton.”

His father jumped from the chair he was sitting in and held out his right hand. He looked just like Nick, only twenty or so years older. Regardless of his age, I was shocked at the similarities in their appearance. “We shit, Son. You should have warned us. Nice to meet you, Peyton.”

“We were just in the neighborhood,” Nick said. “Thought we’d stop by for a minute.”

I heard some noise in the kitchen, and suspected it was his mother.

“Our son’s here!” his father yelled. “And he brought a surprise.”

I laughed to myself at the fact he yelled at her like she was a mile away, when in fact she was only a few feet away.

“We’ll go in there,” Nick said. “Be right back.”

I followed him to the kitchen. When we stepped in, his mother was at the sink, bent over scrubbing it with a scouring pad.

“Always doing something,” he said. “Turn around, I want you to meet someone.”

She sighed, and turned around.

Oh my God.

I almost fainted. My legs went wobbly. I may have even gasped, but I wasn’t sure. If I did, no one said anything afterward. I fought to stay composed, and although it wasn’t easy, I followed her lead.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Elizabeth, Nicholas’ mother. What was your name?”

I swallowed heavily and fought not to cry. “Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”

But she already knew my name. She was the woman who saved me from myself.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Peyton,” she said. “Nicholas, go take off that thing, and come back when it’s gone.”

Nick sighed. “Fine. I’ll hang it on my bike.”

He walked away. I stood there, not knowing what to do or say. She gripped my hand in hers, pulled me to her side, and rinsed the sink. “It’s so nice to have you here.”

She knew everything about me. I’d told her about the incident entirely, about my mother dying, and about all of my quirks, shortcomings, and my strengths. I’d told her about my job, the need to write the article, and about having a man in my life that I wasn’t sure about.

I had, more than anything, simply told her the truth. Knowing that she knew everything about me, I couldn’t help but wonder if she would accept me or reject me as Nick’s significant other.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Do you know how to make chicken marsala?” she asked.

I shook my head. I really didn’t know how to make much. Growing up without a mother, going to college, and having a demanding job left me with little time to learn to cook.

“No,” I said.

She took me by the hand and led me to the oven. “Stand right there, and let me get everything. We’ll make it together, how’s that?”

I grinned. “Sounds good.”

“
Sounds good
?” She chuckled, then opened the refrigerator door. “Nicholas says that all the time, and now he’s got you saying it. It’s nice to see he’s rubbing off on you. He’s a nice boy.”

I nodded. “He is.”

She placed everything on the countertop.

“All he’s ever needed was a nice girl.” She looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I’m so glad he finally found one.”

She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight.

I loved having Nick hold me and hug me, but there would never be anything that would come close to be being held in a mother’s arms.

Elizabeth may not have been my mother, but my heart sure didn’t know it.

THIRTY-FIVE

Peyton

I sat at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing I was on the verge of losing my job.

If it bleeds, it sells.

Words to live by in the world of journalism.

Children being saved from a burning building were never as popular as a mass shooting. A front page color photo of a sunset would sit stagnant, while a front page color photo of a grotesquely graphic car wreck would sell out.

I needed something graphic, something gut-wrenching, something memorable.

But, I refused to use Nick or his club as a vehicle to sell newspapers. There were many stories to tell, but none that I was willing to divulge. Camden Rollins III would probably fire me when it was all over, but I could
not
pen a vicious story about Nick and the FFMC.

At least not something worth reading.

I decided, above all, I needed to write a story that made a difference. Something that was gut-wrenching, but not too gory. A heartfelt, but tear-jerking story that stuck with the reader long after they were done reading it. Something that made them say,
what the fuck was that about?

Something they may even read again. After they thought about it.

I relaxed in my chair, stared at my monitor, and sighed. After a long period of silence, it came to me.

My fingers no longer hovered over the keyboard. They tapped at record pace. In a few hours, I had the story.

I read it, re-read it, and printed a copy.

Proudly, I walked into Mr. Rollins’ office, tossed it on his desk, and grinned. “Sorry I’m a few months late.”

His eyes met mine. After a short glare, he picked it up. A few seconds later, he looked up, but his eyes fell right back down to the page.

When he finished, he dropped it onto his desk.

“This? This is why I let you do what you want, when you want.”

I grinned. “Like it?”

He shook his head. “Love it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m rolling with this on Sunday. What’ll the headline say, Peyton?”

I shrugged. “Call it what it is.”

He widened his eyes.

“Hard,” I said. “Call it
hard
.”

Because it was.

EPILOGUE

Nick

Peyton, Pee Bee, and I were at the shop, trying to decide where to go to lunch.

“It’s Sunday,” Pee Bee said. “Nothing’s fucking open that’s good.”

“Pizza?” Peyton asked. “Haven’t had pizza in forever.”

“I’m not interested,” I said.

“Shit,” Pee Bee said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

“What?”

“Behind you,” he said. “Your fucking buddy.”

I turned around just in time to see the detective pull into the parking lot.

My asshole puckered at the thought of being arrested again, or being questioned in front of Peyton.

His car came to a stop beside us. He rolled his window down, and reached into the passenger seat. After turning around, he stuck his head out the window and grinned. “Can you read, Navarro?”

I nodded. “Comics and shit, yeah?”

He tossed me a newspaper. “Read that,” he said. “That right there? The front page? That’s good shit.”

“Peanut Butter, Navarro, Mrs. Price.” He nodded toward each of us as he said our names. “Have a nice day.”

He grinned and drove away.

I opened the paper, saw the headline, and made note of the reporter’s name. I looked at Peyton.

She shrugged.

And, I began to read.

***

A mother dies in a horrific car crash, leaving her children to be raised by an overworked father and an immigrant babysitter. No one cares, because there wasn’t a photo attached to the story of her death.

A pic or it didn’t happen.

If it bleeds, it sells. But that shouldn’t be the case. The world has changed. A best-selling love story will soon be a thing of the past. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’ll be here before you know it. The romance world has been turned on its ear by step-brother romances, slaughterotica, and priests with a penchant for girls.

It must be shocking, or it won’t sell. If it’s a tale of love, hatred – or anything in between – it doesn’t sell. And it won’t.

Be the first to pen a new way to have sex with a corpse, and you’ll hit the New York Times best-sellers list. Write a book about two people who fall in love, get married, and have triplets, and you’ll go broke.

Front page articles are used to sell the newspaper. The cover story. Lure them in at any and all costs. Write it long enough to require them to flip to two or three more pages, and you’ve done your job.

How does a journalist tell a tale of love and still capture the interest of the reader enough to provoke them to complete the story?

Make it a shocker.

Race. Color. Creed. Religion. In the eyes of the almighty, we’re equal and we should remain so, but we don’t. As a nation, we’ve been taught to judge. The world, in fact, has been taught to judge.

We tell ourselves we don’t, but we do.

A man at a red light sits quietly with his wife and children, listening to his favorite music. A sound in the distance makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He fills with fear, for he has heard the sound before, and he knows what it brings.

“Don’t look,” he warns the family.

A group of men on motorcycles pull alongside the Buick. The man, petrified, stares straight ahead and prays to his maker for the traffic light to turn green before something happens.

Because something, he is certain, will happen.

The light turns, and he speeds away.

Is he right, or is he wrong?

At a bar the motorcyclists stop. Once inside, they notice a woman. A woman who is alone. One-by-one, they take their turn, raping her. They rape her of her innocence, of her trust, and of her ability to sleep at night. They rape her of her life.

Yet, somehow, she survives.

She stumbles through her days and nights that follow, not knowing how – or even if – she’ll ever survive.

The rapists are eventually caught, taken to court, and tried for the horrific crime they committed. After a lengthy trial, they are convicted and await sentencing. On judgment day, they receive six months in the county jail – in protective custody.

Even jailhouse justice is impossible. They’re protected from harm.

The girl, once again, is raped.

By the judicial system.

Downtrodden and beaten, she stumbles to the bar, hoping to dull the pain. Halfway through her first pitcher of beer, she hears a familiar rumble. Through the window, she confirms her suspicions.

A motorcycle club.

In fear for her life, she attempts to grab her things and go. Before she is able, however, they are upon her. Slowly, and without expression, one of the men approaches her. She cowers in her seat. He reaches for her.

She flinches.

And he picks a piece of lint from her coat.

“We heard about your case,” he says. “Don’t worry. Justice will prevail.”

She swallows hard, and attempts to acknowledge his presence, but the words do not come.

He physically looks no different than the men who haunt her dreams, but somehow she feels that he is.

With a glimmer of hope, her eyes meet his. Memorizing and blue, they provide her with comfort.

Embarrassed for her initial fear of the club’s intentions, her eyes fall to the floor. When she looks up, the men are gone.

She hears the rumble. Through the window, she watches as the taillights fade off into the darkness of the night, and her heart fills with warmth.

Is she right, or is she wrong?

Six months later, on the eve of their release, the rapists leave their protective cells. One by one, they walk away.

And one by one they meet their fate.

When the woman gets the news, she feels justice is served.

Right, I ask you? Or wrong?

For the first time since that horrific night, she falls into a deep uninterrupted sleep.

And she dreams.

She dreams of equality.

Of love.

And of a world that does not, will not, and cannot hate.

The familiar rumble wakes her from her sleep. Through the window she sees the man, sitting on his motorcycle.

Waiting. 

And, without hesitation, she climbs on the back of the motorcycle, and she rides away.

Forever.

Right, or wrong?

Ask her the next time she crosses your path.

She is any survivor.

Signed, a survivor.