HARD RIDE (The Slayers MC Book 2) Page 4

I keep my mind busy as I prepare the meal, so used to cooking as it’s what I was able to do back at home on the compound to hide away from all the mental and verbal abuse, safely tucked away in the kitchens with the housekeepers and cooks.

  I often wondered how things would have been if they were different, if my stepmother, father’s wife, had shown me some bit of pity, perhaps taken me in and raising the motherless girl that I was along with her own daughters. Perhaps she would have been able to find some way to love me in spite of the circumstances of my conception?

  What would I have been like if that had happened? Would I be as guarded and untrusting as I am today? Would I be as spoiled, cruel, and self-righteous as her own daughters, my half-sisters, had become?

  I don’t know. I’ll never know, because my life played out the way it was meant to, having been left abandoned to live with a family that hated my very existence and made sure I knew it.

  The only person that ever showed me any kindness was Mateo, father’s sister’s son, my cousin. He’s only a year older than I am, and we attended the small compound school together, making fun of the tutors and running around to play kickball together in the yard.

  He’s the only true family I have, and it breaks my heart to know that he must be sick with worry now that I’ve been taken. We’d speak almost daily, with each of us telling the other of our lives.

  Mateo was happy that I’d been able to go away to school, that I would become the doctor I always wanted to be. He knew how hard my mother’s death had been on me, and how the rural doctors hadn’t been equipped to help her after giving birth to me, when she suffered and left this earth.

  It’s in her honor that I pursued medicine, wanted so badly to become the doctor that she had deserved on that last day of hers.

  Now, thanks to this goon behind me, I’ll fall so behind in my classes that I’ll never be able to catch up. Anger wells inside of me, growing and threatening to boil over just like the pot of chili I’m stirring.

  Reaching for the cayenne pepper, I shake it generously over the steaming, bubbling mixture that I’d learned to cook when I was younger. I take out my anger on the spice shaker and sprinkle enough to nearly empty the jar.

  That makes me feel better.

  If I can’t poison him, I can at least make him damn uncomfortable, instead.

  ~*~

  “Dinner is served. Choke on it.” I set out two bowls of steaming hot chili. It isn’t my best, but considering what I had to work with, it looks delicious.

  He leans over the bowl, inhaling the hot steamy vapors that rise from the dinner. I watch his nose wrinkle and his eyes tear, trying my best not to laugh and give myself away. If he thinks it’s hot and spicy now, before he’s even tasted it, I can’t wait to see what happens when he actually eats it.

  I lift the spoon set aside on my napkin and skim the top of the bowl, bringing the first decent meal I’ve had in weeks to my waiting mouth. Oh my God, that’s so good! I close my eyes and picture myself back in the old, warm kitchen of the compound with Fernanda, father’s oldest housekeeper, and the dearest friend I had.

  “Hey!” The jerk takes my own bowl and swaps it with his. “I was easting that!”

  He smiles. “Yup. And that’s how I know it’s safe to eat.”

  Huh. I guess he’s not as dumb as I’d thought. Whatever. He’s about to get a special little treat, regardless of which bowl he eats from.

  I hold up the palms of my hands in mock surrender. “You got me. I slipped something in your food.”

  I roll my eyes and then take a spoonful from my new bowl of dinner. Mmm. Still good.

  Once he’s decided that it’s safe enough he cautiously stabs at the chili in front of him as if there’s something dangerous to be found within. I can’t blame him, though. I’ve done enough to him in these last few weeks where I’m sure he thinks I’m the devil. I don’t care. I can’t be concerned with what he thinks of me. I may not have found a way yet, but eventually I’ll get away, escape… I have to, before father’s men find me and bring me back to him or this man trades me back into the hands that I despise.

  This is my chance, my one opportunity to finally leave this type of life behind. To start a new life somewhere far away from Mexico and my father’s reach, with a new name and something I’ve never had before. My freedom.

  Watching him from the corner of my eye, I see his spoon raise slowly to his lips. I watch those lips part and the chili touch the tip of his tongue before being swallowed quickly.

  And then, I wait.

  Five. Four. Three. Two.

  “What the fuck?!” He feverishly reaches for the bottle of beer in front of him, gulping furiously until it’s emptied as I nearly fall from my chair laughing.

  Next, he takes my own drink, the cold bottle of water I was enjoying, and downs it. His face is red, his eyes watering like little sprinklers. He does some sort of controlled breathing with his mouth open.

  I take another spoonful of my own chili. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a little heat?”

  ~*~

  CHASE

  It takes at least five minutes until I’m able to breathe normally again. My nostrils feel like they’re on fire. My throat feels like it’s raw. My lips feel shredded.

  I’ve chugged three bottles of water from the fridge, and the burning is just now starting to cool. At this rate, I’m gonna be pissin’ like a racehorse. I’ve always liked Mexican food, even on the hotter side, but this—this is something off the charts hot!

  I could tell there was some kick to it just by the smell, but nothing prepared me for what was in store.

  Catarina laughs and chuckles between bites of her own food that I have no doubt is just as hot as mine is, but she shows no reaction.

  “Glad I could entertain you,” I mumble as I take my seat.

  She smirks. “Oh, don’t be such a baby! It’s not even that hot. The first bite is the worst, trust me. You won’t even notice it from now on.”

  I shake my head and throw my napkin down on the table. “I’m not fallin’ for it.”

  Her shoulders shrug. “Suit yourself. But, I’m not lying to you. Your taste buds will be numb for a while. You won’t notice the pepper.”

  Despite the pain it’s just endured, my stomach grumbles and growls at the bowl of chili. I’d only gotten a small taste of it before my mouth was lit on fire but that small bit was enough for me to taste the best chili I’d ever had.

  I can’t remember the last time I’d had a home cooked meal, spicy or not, and the thought of having to abandon this one so easily is depressing.

  “You’re not scared, now, are you?” she taunts.

  No matter how spicy and hot this food is, it’s nothing compared to the pain I’d feel if I let her get the best of me. I take a deep breath, bracing myself before I jump willingly into the flames, and take a very small mouthful of the supper that’s getting cold.

  Holding my breath, as if that will somehow help, I force it down. She’s right. My tongue is kind of numb. Numb enough where it doesn’t hurt as much as the last mouthful did.

  I take a sip of cold water and wash down the last of what’s in my mouth. Loosening my collar seems to help a bit, so I tug at the material encircling my neck. Whoo. Not bad. I did it.

  I bet I can do it again.

  Another bite goes down even easier. Then the next, and the next, all the way through until the last spoonful from my now empty bowl.

  “See? Told you.” Catarina gloats.

  The pot of chili on the stove calls to me and I take a second helping. “Please excuse me if I don’t quite believe you. I’m sure you understand why.”

  “I’m not a liar. If I say something, it’s the truth.” She seems offended. I don’t know why, but she turns quiet, more serious than I’ve ever seen her. Of all the sarcastic, mean things we’ve said to each other, that last one seems to have hit her a bit differently. I can see it in her eyes.

  I claim my seat once again, while a charged silence l
ingers between us. Looking up, I can see her eyes are distant, staring into the food she’s now playing with.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a liar.” I decide to change the subject, to get away from whatever it is that has gotten her in the mood she’s in. “So, where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  She comes to life a little. “Fernanda. She’s father’s cook.” Catarina smiles. “She always liked things spicy. She was married to Tomas, father’s gardener. He’d come in for lunch every day and he would say ‘Mama, nobody can cook like you.’ And then she’d always give him another ladle full.”

  I think this is the first time I’ve seen her almost… happy, since that day in the science lab when she was mixing her potions.

  “Well, as far as I can tell, nobody can cook like you.” I didn’t mean for it to come out like it did and it takes us both off guard. For the first time she can’t seem to think of anything nasty to say to me and I can’t think of any way to rebut it either.

  “Thank you.” She whispers. “Doesn’t anyone ever cook for you?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug my shoulders. “Nah. I take care of myself, mostly. The other guy’s Ol’ ladies take pity on me sometimes and send over some food whenever they cook up something special, but that’s about it.”

  She looks confused. “Their mothers? Why would their mothers still be cooking for them?”

  I have to laugh. “Not their Ma. Their Ol’ lady.”

  She still doesn’t get it.

  “It—it’s what we call our women. Wives, girlfriends. Ol’ ladies.” I give Miss Smarty Pants a lesson in a subject she clearly knows nothing about. A rush of adrenaline shoots through me and causes my cock to swell, thinking about what else I could teach her.

  Catarina pushes her nearly empty bowl back away from her. “They like being called… Old Ladies? Isn’t that kind of mean?”

  This is gonna take a minute. “Not Old ladies. Ol’ ladies. And they fuckin’ love it.”

  Her arms fold over one another and she rests on them. “Why?”

  This is gonna take more than a minute. “Because, it—it means somethin’. Somethin’ that no other word could mean. It’s kind of like our own language, our own history. Being someone’s Ol’ lady means you’re untouchable, it means that you matter to him and to the club. You fuck with someone’s Ol’ lady and you fuck with the whole club. Her man protects her, the club protects her. They take care of each other.”

  Catarina nods, with those mesmerizing eyes of hers showing that she’s beginning to understand. “And where’s your Ol’ lady? Doesn’t she mind that you’ve been gone for so long?”

  I nearly spray my beer on the table. “Ain’t got one--”

  “Don’t have one. Not ain’t got one,” she jumps on me.

  “Darlin’, you do realize that out of the two of us, English is my first language, don’t you?” I lean into the table just as she is, growing comfortable in the first real conversation we’ve had.

  Her eyebrow arches. “Is that so? Then how come you can’t speak it correctly?”

  She’s having fun with me, toying with me.

  I think it’s time to return the favor. “Oh, I speak it just fine. Sometimes it’s not as important which word you use, but how you say it. See, it’s what you put behind it. If I want to scare the shit outta someone, I know just what words to use. If I want to impress someone, well, I would know how.” She’s listening, closely. “And if I wanted to, let’s say, make a woman feel just what I wanted her to, I’d know how to say exactly the right things to do that, too.”

  My eyes lock with hers, pinning her gaze on mine. She moves just the slightest bit as she gulps hard.

  “Is that all part of that secret language from your club that you mentioned?” She’s curious. That’s good.

  I lick my lips slowly. “Some of it. We’ve got ways to make our women know just how much they mean to us. But most of it is just something you learn from reading people, from seeing how they react to certain things, how their body gives them away.”

  She realizes I’m watching her closely, reading her very own body language just as I’m explaining to her, and her body suddenly freezes before she gives anything else away.

  I crook a smile and lower my voice to an almost hushed whisper. “You see, there are some things you just can’t control, no matter how hard you try, they can’t be hidden.” I see the sweat begin to glisten like dew on her brow as my words hypnotize her. “These unmistakable ways a person reveals just what they’re feeling, or how another person’s words make them react…you have to know where to look for those signs.”

  Next, my eyes drop casually down to the thin top that stretches to cover her overflowing breasts. I stare at them carefully, watching the very center of each boob harden and peak, giving her away, pushing against the material of the white shirt to be seen.

  I know I wouldn’t be able to take the bountiful tit in one mouthful, but damn I want to try.

  My eyes keep their gaze on her breasts, staring, willing those firm button-like nubs to feel the heat of my stare. I know I’m making her squirm, and that’s exactly what my intention is.

  She moves quickly, covering her body’s confession with her crossed arms held tight against herself, but not before I see her lower lip quiver.

  I find her eyes again and raise my eyebrow. “See? It’s all about how you say things darlin’. Not what you say.”

  Catarina begins to shy back away from me, edging out of her seat and backing towards the door to her room.

  “I—I should probably get some rest. Um—thanks for… dinner.”

  I lean back in my chair and widen my legs a little to give some breathing room to the very healthy erection I’ve got growing. Her eyes spot it just as she’s closing the door and I see them widen in wonder.

  It doesn’t matter that we don’t speak the same language. We understand each other just fine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAWSON

  Taking the ride every day to check on Chase and the girl is great to use the time and clear my head, but it sure eats up the better part of my afternoons.

  By the time I make the turn into my neighborhood, the sun is setting low enough for me to have to turn on the large single headlight of my Harley. The familiar roadway lights up just as the overhead streetlights pop on. This was always my favorite time of day when I was a kid. All of us little troublemakers would end whatever baseball game or flag football scrimmage we had going in order to run home in time for dinner.

  If we had a really good thing going, sometimes we’d linger a little too long and our Mas would come lookin’ for us. That was enough of an incentive to get our asses home real quick. No one wanted to be the pussy whose mother came calling for him like a little baby. If you were that lucky person, you wouldn’t hear the end of it for a long while.

  Sure, the other guys would take it easy on you while your ma was right there, afraid she’d call their own ma up since all the families in the neighborhood were tight back then. But the next day? That’s when your buddies would lay into you and embarrass the ever-living shit outta ya.

  Getting home before the sun finished setting was a good idea to avoid that kind of elementary school catastrophe, but also because your ma usually had somethin’ good waiting for you on the table.

  My ma was probably the best cook on the block, maybe even the neighborhood. Every night, Matt and I would race each other to get home and see what she’d whipped up from scratch that day, even though she was doin’ it while juggling two jobs just to pay for that food.

  She’d always be dressed in her uniform, ready to head off to the second of those jobs right after dinner, down at the firehouse, answering the phones and dispatching whatever kind of things people needed when they called 9-1-1.

  After she’d make our plates and see us seated at the table, she’d always kiss us on the top of our heads, remind us to clean the dishes when we were done, and then bring a plate to Pops usually already half
drunk in his La-Z-Boy by then.

  As Matt and I got older, things started getting worse between her and the Ol’ man. She’d find reasons to stay at work longer, keep outta the house and away from his drunken fits. My brother and I graduated from playing football and simple neighborhood games, and quickly evolved into things that probably would have gotten our asses shipped off to Juvie if we’d been stupid enough to get caught.

  By middle school, the sun would set in the late afternoons and it didn’t mean the same things it did when we were kids. No moms were comin’ to look for us. There was no heart warming supper waitin’ for you. You were lucky if there was a porch light on by the time you wound up home.

  It had been so long ago that I’d forgotten what this could be like, could feel like, comin’ home, knowin’ someone was there waitin’ for ya. That someone cared enough that you might be hungry and made a little something for you.

  Angel’s real good at that, although I’m sure she was even before I knew her. I’ll bet she cooked somethin’ for Sasha every single night. Now that it’s the three of us, sometimes even four if Angel’s own ma comes down from her apartment over the garage to join us, it’s like a real family. Even better then what I had as a kid before things got bad.

  I turn onto my road, passing the few houses until I get to my own, excited to actually come home. As soon as I see my place in the distance, I can see the lights are on, the Jeep I gave to Angel is parked right up front in the driveway, and I feel my chest grow tight.

  I never had nothin’ of my own like this before. I never even knew what I was missing.

  The loud roar of the bike and rumble of the tailpipe signals my return and it isn’t long before I see a small face peek through the curtains of the large window near the front door.

  It’s getting dark enough where I can see inside the lit house pretty well, and I can make out Sasha’s eyes darting around excitedly until she spots me riding up the driveway to park in my usual spot, right next to Angel’s Jeep.

  Her hair is in pigtails today and they flop around as she jumps up and down excitedly that I’m home.