"Come here." Stake wrapped his arm around her and walked her back to his bike. He opened one of his saddlebags, removed an old black Harley T-shirt, and handed it to her. "Put this on. It'll be too big, but at least it's cooler than a damn sweater."
Before she realized what she was doing, she lifted the shirt to her nose and inhaled the citrusy scent of his cologne.
"I didn't say it was clean," he said, misinterpreting her motive. "But it is my favorite."
"It's fine. Thank you." She pulled the shirt over her head, smiling when it fell almost to her knees. "I could wear this as a dress." She ran her finger over the small rip in the sleeve, wondering how it had happened.
He dug a small metal tin of salve out of his bag. He set it on the bike seat before tenderly brushing her long hair away from her cheek.
"I can't believe you brought that," she said.
He gave her a sad smile. "I've started to carry it with me at all times." He unscrewed the lid and gently started to apply the salve to her cheek. "It kills me when he loses his temper with you, but you need to learn to stay out of his way when he's drinking."
"You're defending him?"
"No." He put the lid back on the tin before wiping his hand on his jeans. "But I'm not always gonna be here. What if I'm on the road and he hurts you worse than this. Who're you gonna go to for help?"
She shrugged. She'd learned a long time ago that Stake was the only one who would stand up for her against her dad. "I never know when something's going to set him off."
He rested his hands on her shoulders and bent down enough to look her in the eyes. "When he's drinking, find somewhere else to go. You live in the country for fuck's sake. Go for a walk or take a blanket and find a nice shade tree." He kissed her forehead. "Just stay away."
"Or, you could take me with you when you have to go on the road," she suggested. All she'd wanted for the last few years was to be the woman on the back of his bike. She wanted to be everything to the man who had come to her rescue on so many occasions.
He grinned. "Can't transport a minor across state lines, bug, but we'll talk about it again when you're older."
She smiled unable to control her emotions around him. "I'll take you up on that."
He winked. "I'm counting on it."
Chapter One
Ten Years Later
Santana punched the price of the cereal into her calculator and realized she was over her limit. Shit. Even the generic brand was too expensive. She glanced at her cart and tried to figure out what she could eliminate. The vitamin supplement drinks for her mother took the biggest chunk of her grocery money, but they were essential. Of course, had their roles been reversed, she knew her mom wouldn't have done the same. Hell, she'd barely registered on her mom's radar as a child.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought not to cry. She was so damned tired of going to bed hungry. Of eating cheese sandwiches on expired bread and Hamburger Helper without the hamburger. It was a pity party she had often lately because she knew in her heart she didn't deserve the fucked up life she'd been handed.
With a resigned sigh, she put the corn flakes back on the shelf. Goodbye old friend, she thought as she reached for the canister of generic oatmeal. As a kid, she'd loved it when her mom had made hot oatmeal, but that had been an occasional thing, very occasional, like maybe three times in her entire childhood, but who was counting? It wasn't often her mother had been sober enough to do anything for her only daughter.
She felt eyes on her and turned to see a well-dressed middle-aged woman staring at her. Mrs. Godfrey, her tenth-grade English teacher. She quickly put her head down, causing her long hair to drape in front of the bruise and cut on her cheekbone. Move on, she silently commanded, hoping the woman would finish gawking.
"Are you okay?" Mrs. Godfrey asked.
"Fine," Santana replied, putting her cart in motion. She hadn't been fine when she'd begged Mrs. Godfrey for lunch money when she was just a teenager and she wasn't fine now, but people like Mrs. Godfrey never wanted to hear the real truth. She wasn't okay and wouldn't be until the cancer finally took her mom. She stopped suddenly, unable to believe the thought had run through her mind, no matter how unintentional it had been. Her mother was the only reason she was still in Broken Ridge, Texas.
The pain of longing threatened to overwhelm her as she chose a checkout lane and waited. She'd been so close to getting out. She'd even been accepted to the University of Colorado, but that had been almost six years ago. Before her father had been arrested for murder, before the man who'd always frightened her had been sentenced to life in prison. Even then, she wouldn't have put off school if her mother had been able to care for herself. Always a drunk, Ellie Rogers had been in and out of six court-mandated treatment programs since Santana had been a child. Unfortunately, nothing had worked until Ellie had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Even now, weighing barely ninety pounds and confined to her bed, she often used what little strength she had left to rail against Santana because she wouldn't buy her booze. Stupidly, no naively, she'd hoped her mom would finally notice her once she got sober. Sure, her mom noticed her now, but only as a nursemaid and an object of ridicule.
"Paper or plastic?" Barb, the cashier asked, breaking into Santana's thoughts. She'd visited the store twice a month since the age of twelve, and Barb still didn't acknowledge her any more than she would a stranger who was passing through town.
"Paper." Santana unloaded her meager supply of groceries onto the conveyor belt and held her breath while Barb scanned her items. Please don't be over fifty dollars she began to chant in her head. It had happened before, and she'd been forced to go through the humiliating process of putting items back.
She dug three coupons out of her purse. The dollar-fifty she would save on the vitamin drink had allowed her to buy a two-liter bottle of generic grape soda. It was an extravagance, she knew, but it had been so long since she'd purchased something for herself that she couldn't pass it up. She handed the coupons to Barb and waited for the total.
"Forty-nine seventy-three," Barb announced.
Santana pulled out a bundle of wrinkled ones and fives and handed the entire thing to the cashier. "There should be fifty dollars."
With a roll of her eyes, Barb made a production of smoothing the bills before separating them. Finally, after the customer behind Santana cleared her throat, Barb counted the money and finished the transaction. Barb handed Santana twenty-seven cents before dismissing her completely. No, have a nice day, no, thank you.
She was used to it. There were definitely three types of people in Broken Ridge. Two of which were those who worked at the nearby state prison and those whose family members were incarcerated. Unfortunately, she belonged in the latter category. Her father had been in and out of prison several times for short stretches, but the last time had been for murder. Even before her father had died in a prison brawl, she knew she'd never see him again. Not only did her mother have a strict rule about Santana not going near the prison, but also her relationship with her father wasn't a happy one. She wasn't sure what the fight had been about that had ended Smash's life. No doubt, the third category of people in Broken Ridge had something to do with it. Unfortunately, the third type was the bikers of the Kings of Bedlam Motorcycle Club. Why the hell they'd chosen Broken Ridge was anyone's guess, but because they had, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere without a single friend. She should be used to it by now. Growing up, she'd played with the other club kids. It hadn't really been a choice. Since her mother was always too drunk to watch her, Smash had usually taken her to the club with him when he had business. The club was on a forty-acre piece of land with plenty of room for kids to play and explore without being subjected to the bullshit that went on inside the building. Except for a few quick trips to the bathroom and three lockdowns, she hadn't been allowed in the clubhouse. Lockdowns might sound like one big slumber party, but when dozens of families were cloistered inside a building for days or weeks because of some threat to the club, it sucked after the first day or so.
The non-biker children she went to school with had been told, she assumed by their parents, to stay away from the Kings' kids. She hadn't really minded at the time, she'd had Gill, Jaycee and Tiny to pal around with.
She parked the cart outside the store next to the old rusted Red Flyer wagon she'd had since she was a kid. After loading the groceries into the wagon, she started the two-mile walk home. It wouldn't have been a big deal except her flip-flop was broken and being held together with plastic tab she'd swiped from the produce department. She prayed the fix would be enough to get her home without having to walk barefoot along the gravel road on which she lived.