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.