Bear (Wayward Kings MC Book 1) Read online

  It’s time to get the fuck out of here.

  I just need to hurry, because if Nash catches me like this, I’ll be dead for sure.

  Chapter Six

  Nash

  A little bell hanging on the swinging glass door dings as I push it open.

  It’s a gloomy, depressing place in this drug store. Dim lights, barred windows, and some guy behind the counter who looks like he’s at the end of his rope.

  Kill me now, his look says.

  I must have a similar look on my face, or maybe it’s the way I’m staring at my phone and feeling completely lost, because he says “Ladies products, aisle six” right away.

  I nod at him. “Thanks, man.”

  “We’ve all been there,” he says.

  Somehow, based on his bald spot, grey-faced complexion, and the paunchy bags under his eyes, I doubt he ever has.

  I’m hardly paying attention as I make my way through the store — I’m too busy staring at the screen, wondering who the hell names tampons.

  Why do you need to feel like you’re jamming flowers up inside you?

  And what the fuck are pearls? What the fuck does jewelry have to do with any of this?

  I pace up and down the aisle, looking at every single pastel pink-and-blue box on the shelf and coming up empty.

  From the front of the store, the little bell chimes and some other upset guy comes in, staring straight ahead with the same kind of look I’m sure must be on my face.

  “Aisle six,” the man behind the counter says to him.

  “Thanks, bro,” the new guy answers.

  “Fuck,” I mutter to myself as I remember Roxanna’s warning that I might not find them on the shelves. “Fuck.”

  I make one last desperate circuit of the store and then stop in aisle six, staring at my phone, trying to deny what I know is the reality of the situation: I’m going to have to talk to the guy at the counter.

  The new guy sidles up to me.

  “Your old lady send you out on an errand, too?”

  I nod at him. “Yeah, I’m trying to find these Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glides. You ever heard of em?”

  He shrugs, pulls out his phone, and checks his screen. “No, man. Sorry. I’m looking for the ‘Gentle Sport, Super Comfort Unscented Smooth Glide tampons by Comfort-Ex.’”

  The guy takes a slow walk up and down the aisle.

  “In all the times she’s sent you out, have you ever found your old lady’s brand?”

  He shrugs, looks back at the phone, and then back to me with worry in his eyes. “Sometimes I find something close. I don’t know, man. I just don’t know anymore. Usually I ask at the counter, take whatever they can get me, and then also bring home a bottle of wine and some flowers since I can’t get her brand. It seems to ease the blow.”

  I feel like I’m fucking Indiana Jones searching for the Holy Grail. Except there’s no Sean Connery, no Grail Diary, and my plane to the Holy Land’s dumped me somewhere in New Jersey instead. This is fucking hopeless.

  Well fuck, I can’t really get Roxanna wine and flowers. That’d send the wrong fucking message.

  I need to find these tampons.

  I look up at the counter again. The suicidal guy’s scratching at his patchy mustache and reading a copy of the National Enquirer.

  Just to be certain I didn’t miss it, I do another circuit of the aisle. I move boxes aside and I even check through aisles five and seven, in case some of these ladies pads and tampons spilled over out of aisle.

  No luck.

  I check my phone again. It’s been ten minutes. Leaving that woman alone much longer is a bad idea.

  Swallowing my pride and the sense of despair welling up inside me, I head up to the counter.

  “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately low. “I’m looking for the Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glide tampons. Without pearls. Whatever that means.”

  He frowns, scratches his nose, and stares at me blankly. “What?”

  “I’m looking for the Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glides tampons.”

  It feels like the whole fucking city can hear me. The bell on the door dings twice in a row and more customers start shuffling through the store.

  God damn it. It’s after two in the morning, who the fuck are these people and why the fuck did they have to pick now of all times to come into this store?

  “Aisle six is where we keep that stuff. You check there?” he says, gesturing to the aisle I just came from.

  I look back, there’s now three other guys standing there, same confused and worried look on their faces.

  Is this purgatory? Am I dead? Did I get shanked back in the joint and this whole scenario — my daughter, kidnapping Roxanna, and now hunting for tampons in the dead of night — is just some elaborate hell cooked up by the devil?

  “I fucking checked there, you son of a bitch. Where the fuck do you keep the Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glides? I want those fucking tampons.”

  Another ring from the door. Some guy coughs behind me and I can feel his eyes on my back. Judging me.

  “Aisle. Six,” the guy — Phil, judging by his crooked name-tag — repeats.

  Slamming my hands down on the counter, I lean forward and look him in the eyes. “I’m sick of your fucking attitude. You either get me what I want, or you’re going to learn what it feels like to swallow your own teeth.”

  He stutters. “What was the brand, again?”

  “Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glides.”

  Nodding, he turns and disappears in the back.

  I get itchy waiting for him the whole minute or two he’s gone. I can’t get my mind off that firecracker I have tied up in my apartment and the odds that she’s somehow managed to break herself free.

  When he comes back with a bottle of wine, some chocolates, and a box that is most definitely not the kind that I’m looking for, I’m ready to break his face.

  “Those aren’t my brand.”

  He sets them down on the counter. “They’re the closest we have. Look, man, I’m sorry, the only thing different about these is they’re not scented. But that might actually be better.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “The body’s a fragile ecosystem. Introducing something scented or perfumed up there can mess with stuff, you know.”

  “It’s true,” the guy behind me says. “My wife told me she’d kill me if I ever accidentally got her the scented kind. Literally kill me. She said she’d stab me in the eye while I was sleeping.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But what’s with the wine and chocolates? Are we fucking dating?”

  Phil shakes his head. “Think of these things as consolation gifts. On the house. I’m just sorry we didn’t have your brand.”

  I pay for the tampons, grab the other stuff, and hurry back across the street to my apartment building. My feet rap a nervous rhythm against the tile floor of the elevator as it ascends to my floor. My keys are out, I shove them in the lock and give it a twist.

  Standing still, I listen.

  It’s quiet.

  The world around me is holding it’s breath, ready to let loose. I tense. I’ve felt these moments before, back in the Marines. It’s the feeling you get right before someone ends up shot and left in a ditch, face down, their last breath a mix of mud and sludge.

  I shut the door behind me. Lock it.

  It’s ten paces down the hallway to the spare bedroom. I stop outside, still ready, still tense.

  Somethings wrong. I feel it in my gut.

  Houdini’s at it again.

  I can’t lose her.

  Whatever it takes, I have to keep her around. She’s the only leverage I got.

  My hand settles around the knob.

  Half expecting to find a scattering of slashed zip ties and a knife-holding, fire-eyed brown-haired devil of a woman, I open it. It’s going to be a shame if I have
to hurt her to keep her in line. Hitting women isn’t my thing, but I’ll go as far as I have to go to — even if that means putting a bullet in her brain.

  I open the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Roxanna

  I freeze the second I hear his feet in the hallway.

  He stops outside the room for a second and I know it’s now or never.

  I’m not free yet — I’ve got everything except the zip tie around my wrists cut through — but I’m ready to fight. I have to be.

  This pair of baby-sized nail clippers isn’t a weapon, unless I’m up against a particularly vicious hangnail, but it’ll have to do.

  I grit my teeth, flip out the nail file, and adjust my grip.

  Time to give him hell.

  Then the door freezes, half-open, and the thick silence hanging in the air is cut to pieces by the shrill sound of a stock ringtone.

  The door slams shut.

  I’m safe.

  Nash’s bellowing bass of a voice echoes through the hallway. Feet pace back and forth, a nervous beat against the floor.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Things are different now — I’ve got the judge’s daughter. Let me talk to Abigail. Now. I don’t care that you have to wake her up — she’s three, it’s not like she has school tomorrow.”

  What the hell is going on? Who’s three?

  It’s quiet again. I stay, statue still, listening, hardly breathing.

  And then there’s movement and Nash’s voice changes — going from simmering rage to comforting warmth. It’s loving, enveloping, expansive. Familiar like an old blanket.

  “Hi Abigail,” he says, and his voice catches. “It is so good to hear your voice.”

  There’s only one thing in the world that could make a man like him sound like that.

  He’s a dad.

  The clippers fall from my hands, clattering against the floor.

  “I know, I’m sorry to wake you up, love. I just needed to hear your voice. Oh, you were having a dream? What were you dreaming about?”

  Something solid thumps against the door and there’s a swish as something slides down to the floor. I can see him, in my head, and he’s sitting on the floor, back against the door, cradling the phone like it’s his daughter.

  How can this be the same man as the man who drew a gun on me? Who threatened to kill me?

  “And that’s your favorite cartoon? Wow, sweetheart. Sounds like you had a nice dream,” he says, and he pulls in a heavy, shaky breathe. “Some day soon, you and I are going to meet. And every morning that we’re together, I’ll make you breakfast — we’ll have pancakes, waffles, I’ll make you anything you want — and you can tell me about all your dreams. How does that sound?”

  Things go quiet.

  There’s a heavy sigh.

  The air feels colder.

  “Yeah. We’ll be in touch,” Nash says, his voice hard. “No funny shit. We’re even, now. We’ve each got something on the other. We’re going to fucking work this out, you got it?”

  There’s a quiet, electronic beep as he ends the call and that beep jolts me back to the situation at hand: I’m still kind of tied up, I have no actual weapon, and a man with a gun is on the other side of the door, ready to hurt me.

  And the reason why is obvious: he has a daughter.

  A daughter.

  Three years old.

  It rips at my heart.

  Whatever fight’s in me evaporates.

  I sigh and steel myself for what comes next. For what feels right.

  I step forward and rap my knuckles on the door.

  “I’m coming out,” I say aloud.

  There’s no response.

  I open the door and he’s there — sitting upright on the floor. There’s a haphazard pile of stuff next to him. A box of tampons, a box of chocolate, and a bottle of wine.

  I look at him.

  Deep blue eyes — fierce, glistening with pain — look back at me. Stubbled jaw set in anger. I’m on thin ice, taking a chance like this, and one wrong move will sink me; he’s a father, and I don’t doubt for a second that he would do whatever it takes for his daughter. I’d do the same. Family is everything — it’s how I was raised. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by the love and support of my parents, discovering how far I can go with two people solidly behind me and finding out it’s a whole hell of a lot further than I could go on my own. My biggest ambition is to do the same — to build a career I’m proud of, to build a family with a partner I love and respect, and to pass on that same love and support to my own sons and daughters.

  I take a step forward.

  “Can I sit?”

  No answer.

  “I’m not trying to escape,” I add.

  He cocks his head and there’s a hint of a smile that gives me hope. “You’re not? Then how’d you get here?”

  I shrug. “Well, I was trying to escape. But I’m not, now.”

  He pats a spot on the floor next to him. “Even if you were, I would’ve caught you. You’re good, but not that good. Go ahead, have a seat, Houdini.”

  I sit down, and we’re side by side. After a moment, I shift a little, trying to get comfortable — which isn’t real easy when your hands are tied — and I brush against him. He is rock-solid and, even when he’s sitting on the floor next to a box of tampons and some chocolates, there’s something about him that oozes masculine confidence.

  “Thirsty?”

  He pops the top of the bottle of wine and takes a drink before handing it to me.

  I haven’t asked for it, but right now feels like one of those situations that requires a drink. I take a long one.

  The wine tastes like spoiled grape juice.

  I look at the label. Leon’s Old Tyme Wine. Figures.

  “What’s going on here?” I say, hesitantly.

  He shrugs his shoulders and rolls his head from side to side and then takes a drink of wine that drains nearly a third of the bottle. “Do you really want to know?”

  “I’d rather know why I’ve been kidnapped than not know. I mean, I’ve already seen your face and heard your voice. I wouldn’t have any problem picking you out of a lineup. So I’m in this pretty deep,” I say. “Plus, you bought me tampons. That’s taking our relationship to the next level.”

  “Fair point,” he says. “I couldn’t find your brand, by the way. Sorry bout that.”

  “I made them up. And I don’t need them. All I wanted was a little time so that I could try and, um, not escape.”

  He laughs. A deep, rumbling, belly laugh that makes me feel warm. “What a fucking night, huh? At least I got some free chocolate for the damn trouble.”

  “You got these for free?”

  “Consolation prize. For not having your brand. They’re horrible, by the way. Taste like soap. It’s fucking stressful as hell shopping for tampons,” he says, offhandedly. Then, standing up, he offers his hand to me. “Listen, I need a break from this shit. You want to go watch some cartoons?”

  I look over at him sideways. “Excuse me?”

  Tonight just keeps getting more and more bizarre.

  “Do you want to watch some cartoons?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s important. So, you can either sit down on the couch with me, eat some chocolate, and watch cartoons, or I can put you back in that chair and tie you up well enough that not even your beautiful escape-artist ass will get out.”

  Did he just call me beautiful?

  I shake my head clear. It’s not a hard decision. But it’s one I never in my life thought I’d have to make.

  “Let’s go watch cartoons.”

  We head into his living room. It’s sparsely decorated. And, though his couch doesn’t look like much, it’s comfortable all the same. I stretch out on it and find this perfect groove to lay in.

  He sits down next to me. I end up with my feet on his lap, and my head on one of the armrests. It’s pretty comfortable, even with my han
ds tied. The wine’s not too far out of reach and I can still get to the chocolates.

  All things considered, I feel pretty good right now.

  “When I moved in, the landlord installed some kind of smart TV or whatever the fuck they call it. I haven’t figured it all out — shit’s changed fast in just the few years that I was gone — but I can get online with it and it plays a whole bunch of movies and shows,” Nash says, pressing a few buttons on the remote.

  In about a minute, he’s got the cartoon playing.

  “Bob the Builder?” I say, looking over at him. This is weird.

  But he’s not paying me any attention. He’s got his eyes square on the screen.

  “Yeah,” he answers. “This is what we’re watching. You have an issue with that, I can put you back in your chair. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It’s just an unusual choice, is what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s an old British cartoon about some construction worker. I would’ve expected something different.”

  He takes a drink of wine, pops a few chocolates into his mouth, and shrugs. “At least it represents an ethos. This Bob guy has a code he lives by, and I can respect that.”

  “A code? An ethos? What kind?”

  “Building shit.”

  “Building shit? That’s it?”

  “Sometimes things are that simple. The community needs shit built, Bob builds shit, and it works out for him.”

  “If you say so.”

  He eats another chocolate. I eat one, too. They’re not half bad for something he got for free from a convenience store. On the screen, Bob and his anthropomorphised tractor are fixing some farmer’s barn and building him a fence.

  “Where would Bobsville be without Bob? He might not be mayor — and I don’t blame him for not wanting the job, he can do better for himself being his own fucking boss — but that town wouldn’t be shit without him.”

  “Might be why they named it after him,” I add.

  “Damn right,” he says. “It sets a good example. Work hard. Don’t take shit from anybody. Be your own man. Or woman.”

  He leans forward, his muscular arms resting on his knees, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes glued to the TV. He’s so into this show, and all because of his daughter, that it’s endearing. I can’t help but smile.