Home>>read The Cut free online

The Cut(3)

By:Carol Lynne


As usual, her mind began to wander back to the good ole days. The time  in her life when she'd had a drunk for a mother, a scary fucker for a  dad, three fantastic friends and a crush on a man she'd believed would  always be there for her. Before the Kings had taken everything from her.

The Kings of Bedlam. Just thinking about the motorcycle club made her  angry. Her father had joined the club before she'd been born, and had  spent close to twenty years doing anything asked of him. He would  disappear for weeks at a time before coming home bruised and out of  sorts, usually smelling like pussy and booze. She still didn't know what  had happened the night one of the cops in town was murdered, but it had  been the beginning of the end for their family. From that day on, they  seemed to live in the gray. No one in town would have a thing to do with  anyone in her family, including employers. Even her friends from the  club had stopped talking to her after her father was sent to prison for  pulling the trigger. And her crush? Yeah, Stake had also checked out of  her life. Smash was an asshole when it came to everyone but his wife and  his best friend, but evidently Stake hadn't felt the same, or he  wouldn't have turned his back on them after Smash's death. Without her  father's income, Santana and her mother had lived on the small  government check they received each month. They were the trash of Broken  Ridge and she was reminded of that fact every single day that she  stepped foot outside the house.         

     



 

Instead of walking along the sidewalk, she veered right and turned into  the alley. On the street, she was too much of a target. It would be easy  for County Sheriff Gordon to cruise by and spot her. Absently, she  lifted a hand to her cheek. One run-in with Pete Gordon a week was more  than enough, thank you very much. Gordon was in the Kings' pocket, which  made him virtually untouchable.

The wagon hit a rock, jerking her to a halt. Sighing, she kicked the  stone out of the way before continuing. "Stupid rock," she mumbled under  her breath.

Pete Gordon had to be at least fifty-years old. With his receding  hairline, potbelly and penchant for chewing tobacco, she still didn't  understand why on earth he would think she'd welcome him into her bed.  She shivered at the thought of lying under the pig, knowing she wouldn't  be able to keep him at bay much longer.

At first she'd tried being polite. When that hadn't worked, she'd just  avoided answering the door each time he'd dropped by the house. Both  tactics had worked for a while, but Gordon had let her know two nights  earlier that he wouldn't be put off any longer. According to him,  getting into her pants was inevitable, one way or another, so she might  as well accept it. She'd even caught him looking into her bedroom and  had been forced to tack one of her bed sheets to the wall above her  window to block his view.

Santana exited the alley and turned left down the gravel road that would  take her home. She knew Gordon was not only capable of rape but would  probably enjoy it more. He seemed like the type to get off on  overpowering an opponent, especially when that opponent was a woman. She  reached for the hunting knife that had belonged to her father. After  the beating, she'd decided to fight back if Gordon ever tried to lay his  filthy hands on her again. No one in town would be surprised if she  killed the sheriff. Not because they knew about Gordon's perverse  nature, but because no one expected any less from a member of the Rogers  family. Could she do it? She'd been asking herself that question since  pulling the knife out of her father's old trunk.

Once outside of town, she released the handle on the wagon. She dug into  her bag for an elastic band and gathered her waist-length dark brown  waves into a haphazard bun before pulling off the long-sleeved shirt  she'd used to hide the bruises marring her skin. Thankfully, she'd  thought to wear a thin tank top underneath or she'd be looking at  heatstroke before she arrived home. Using the shirt, she wiped sweat  from her face, neck and chest before tossing it on top of the groceries.  It was one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, which meant she  wouldn't be much cooler once she got home. With no air conditioning,  she'd been forced to put the two small fans they owned in her mother's  room because when it came right down to it, she loved her mom. Why, she  still didn't understand, but she did. Fuck.

There were days when she told herself she should call the county health  department and let them take care of her mother. It wasn't like her  mother had ever lifted a finger to help raise her. Between grieving for a  life she hadn't had and drinking, Ellie had barely noticed she had a  daughter until her husband had been sent up for murder. Even then, the  only thing her mother wanted was Santana to walk into town to pick up  her order at the liquor store. Nope, it hadn't been until she'd been  diagnosed with cancer that Ellie had needed anything real from her only  child.



Jakob "Stake" Wills set his empty beer bottle on the bar and looked  around. The clubhouse had turned into a dump. The young recruits had  absolutely no respect for the place and it showed in the ripped posters,  smell of cum and soured spilled beer. As usual, one of the club bitches  was giving Iggy head on the couch. Why the hell Ig didn't do that shit  in his room was anyone's guess. Stake wasn't a fucking prude, but, hell,  it got old after a while. The whole lifestyle was starting to take its  toll on him. It was a hard life, no matter what some people thought.  Outsiders believed all they did was ride, drink and fuck, but the  fucking and drinking were merely the outlets they used to deal with the  real shit.

The mess he'd dealt with in San Antonio was proof of how fucked up  things were. The Kings sold weed, pussy and protection, so when Cecil  had asked him to make a run to the city to check on business, he'd been  surprised to find an entire stable of whores with track marks. He'd  immediately demanded to know where they were getting their shit, and one  of them, Sweet Penny, had told him it was a new perk of working for the  Kings.

Stake had stormed into the house the Kings used for business in the city  to confront his brothers. He found Bones, Jimmy and Rabbit in the  middle of what looked like a mother-fucking pharmacy. He would have  exploded on the spot had it not been for Hog, the club's Sergeant at  Arms, standing in the corner of the room. If Hog was in the house, it  meant Cecil knew exactly what was going down in San Antonio. The fact  that Cecil was his uncle, and someone he thought he could trust, made it  harder to swallow.         

     



 

"You want another?" Mad Dog, one of the new patches asked. It was a  stupid fucking name, and Stake had told him so on several occasions, but  the idiot liked it. Like all biker names, Mad Dog hadn't given the name  to himself. The brothers had started calling the kid that when he was a  zit-faced prospect because the fucker got caught pissing on a fire  hydrant. Stake had no room to talk. His own nickname was dumber than  hell, but his mom had given it to him before he could even walk. He'd  been eleven before he'd finally discovered its meaning.

"Stake," Mad Dog prodded. "You want another?"

"No." Stake had planned to confront Cecil, but decided to do it in the  weekly meeting they called church. "I gotta get outta here before Iggy  blows all over that redhead."

"You're still coming to the wedding, right?" Mad Dog asked after him.

"Free beer?"

Mad Dog nodded. "And food. Corrine's dad is roasting a whole pig in that  big smoker he has. Bring a side dish if you want, but it's not  necessary."

Despite his sour mood, Stake grinned. "How old're you, twenty-seven,  twenty-eight? Why the hell would you tie yourself to one pussy for the  rest of your life?"

Mad Dog smiled. "God didn't really bless me in the looks department, so  when you find a woman as pretty as my Corrine, who wants you, you know  better than to let that shit get away."

"I'll take your word for it," he said as he headed out of the club. He  was crossing the parking lot to his bike when Cecil called to him.

"Stake!"

Stake stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He wasn't in the mood for Cecil's bullshit. "What?"

Cecil produced a business-sized white envelope. "I need you to drop this by the Sherriff's house before you disappear again."

"Disappear?" Stake curled his hands into fists. "You think I've been off  on a fucking joy ride? You sent me to the city because you knew what  I'd fucking find," he accused.

Cecil narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what the hell's up your ass  lately, but you'd better fucking dig it out before church tomorrow  night."

Stake took two steps toward Cecil, ready to take his frustration out on  his prez's face. The last thing he needed was to be reminded about the  club meeting like he was a goddamned prospect. He fisted his hands,  ready to start some shit when Mad Dog ran out of the building.