Forty: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance, page 1
Forty
A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance
Cate C. Wells
Contents
Chapter 1
NEVAEH
Chapter 2
FORTY
Chapter 3
NEVAEH
Chapter 4
NEVAEH
Chapter 5
FORTY
Chapter 6
NEVAEH
Chapter 7
FORTY
Chapter 8
NEVAEH
Chapter 9
FORTY
Chapter 10
NEVAEH
Chapter 11
FORTY
Chapter 12
NEVAEH
Chapter 13
FORTY
Chapter 14
NEVAEH
A Note From The Author
About the Author
Sneak Peek
Books By Cate C. Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved
Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations.
Edited by Nevada Martinez.
Proofreading by Raw Book Editing at www.rawbookediting.com.
Special thanks to Jean McConnell of The Word Forager, Sarah, and Erin D.
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1
NEVAEH
I’m going to die from my own stupidity.
Breathless, I slam the bathroom door shut and drop to the cold tile, bracing my bare feet against the vanity and pressing my back to the wood.
“Get out here, you bitch!” Carlo bangs so hard my spine rattles.
“Screw you!” I scream before my brain sputters to life, and I shove my fist in my mouth. What am I doing? Don’t bait the man. Sweet Lord, Nevaeh. Think.
This isn’t a normal fight; this isn’t Carlo getting pissed and letting off steam. He popped me in the eye. Yeah, he was talking with his hands, emphasizing how much he thinks I suck, and it was an accident, but he’s not sorry. I don’t think the blow even registered. He kept on screaming.
There’s a hot, wet trickle dripping down my cheek. I swipe my face with the back of my hand and bite back a whimper. Oh, yeah. That stings. Did he split my eyebrow? I half stand to check my face in the mirror before I remember. Rampaging boyfriend. Blockading the door. Royally screwed. I’m back.
And somehow, I’ve backed myself into a corner. How do I get out of here? There’s a small window over the toilet, but my ass wouldn’t fit, even if I could even get it that high. I’m too short to reach, and too thick to squeeze through.
And we’re on the tenth floor.
Goddamn my glitchy brain.
Bang. Bang. “Get out of my bathroom!”
“Just back off. I’ll go.” Laundry hamper. Bottle of hand soap. Electric razor. There’s nothing in here I can use as a weapon. Maybe I could pull the towel rack off the wall?
Carlo’s voice booms through the vent, loud as day. “Damn fucking right, you’ll go. I’m done with your shit! You can’t even do one little thing right, can you? All you had to do was keep your mouth shut and smile. How hard is that? Isn’t that literally your job?”
Literally, my job is hostess at L’Alba, the club owned by Carlo’s boss. Guess I can kiss that gig goodbye after tonight. If I can talk my way out of this bathroom.
Thud! The door strains, lower than before. He’s kicking it now. Good thing it’s solid wood. There’s only a twist lock, so that’s not keeping him out, but if I stay wedged here, and my thigh muscles don’t give out, he’s not coming in. I’m safe.
I snort a laugh.
Shit, I’m not safe. I haven’t been in years. My entire post-pubescent life has been a series of misadventures, dumb luck, narrow escapes, and poor choices—like this asshole.
“What are you doing in there? You touch my shit, so help me, Nevaeh!”
What am I doing in here? Ack. Brain. Function! How do I get out of this? You catch more flies with honey, right?
“I’m sorry, Carlo. Okay?” I aim for contrite. I nail exasperated.
“For what? Making me look like a bitch in front of my associates? Or running off at the mouth and making yourself look like a dumb whore? What are you sorry for this time, Nevaeh?”
My fists curl, and I bite the insides of my cheeks. I am not going to say that he didn’t need any help from me looking like a bitch. And I am not going to say his mother’s a dumb whore. I’ve met her a few times.
She’s always in the kitchen. She keeps her head down and makes herself busy, but she’s a nice lady. She raised an asshole, but I’m dating him, so who’s the dumb one?
“Just back away from the door, and I’ll leave.” I try harder to keep my voice even and apologetic, but I’m a crappy actress. I do sound terrified and pissed, but mostly I still sound like I’m talking down to a piece of shit.
“You telling me what to do? Fuck you!” Bang. Bang. “I’m done with you. You’re a fuckin’ mess. Your place is a mess. Your life is a mess. In eight months, how many times have I fronted you rent money? Five? Six? You’re thirty years old!”
Twenty-nine. I’m twenty-nine.
“I paid you back!” I shout through the door.
“You’re a leech, Nevaeh. That’s what you are. You thinking you’re gonna get your hand in Dominic Renelli’s pocket now? He don’t want my sloppy seconds.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I only reached across the guy for some calamari, and a glob of marinara landed on his crotch. Dominic Renelli’s terrifying; I was nervous. I dove into his lap with my napkin and started rubbing before I realized what I was doing. Everyone knows that’s my M.O. Renelli made a joke about it, and I played along. It was nothing.
But this is what always happens. I think I’m making better choices, and it ends like this. Carlo Fiore was supposed to be the smart bet. Yeah, he’s “connected,” but he’s just a money guy. An accountant. I mean, he went to Penn State. How dangerous can he be?
A drop of blood dribbles into the corner of my eye; the socket throbs. I bend forward, tear off some toilet paper, and dab. I didn’t even see Carlo’s arm coming. One second, I was spouting off as we walked into the apartment. The next, I’m flying backwards over the arm of the couch. If I didn’t have a brother I’d sparred with constantly growing up, I’d have been down for the count. I can take a punch, though.
Bang. “What are you doing in there?”
“Staging a comeback,” I mutter under my breath. From the thumps and the swaying of the door, I guess he hears me.
“Always with the mouth!”
“Just let me out of the bathroom. You won’t see me anymore. I get it. I screwed up. We’re over.”
Matter of fact, we were over the minute we left the restaurant. He’d dug his fingers into my upper arm, his other hand clutching the stupid messenger bag he totes everywhere like he’s got the nuclear codes. Then he called me a stupid whore, and I was done.
I let him bring me back here because I wanted my stuff. That was another mistake. I’m going to die over a ratty old Steel Bones MC T-shirt and a bottle of expensive shampoo for curly hair.
It’s weird how calm and focused I am right now even though my body is going crazy. My heart’s racing; blood is whooshing in my ears. I’m fidgety, like always, but I have to keep my legs braced, and there’s nothing to fiddle with.
My mind is totally clear, though. It’s wild. I have ADHD—got a prescription I don’t fill and everything—so I’m never this present and in the moment. Except when I smoke up. Or sometimes during sex. Not with Carlo. Or anyone, really, except Forty Nowicki back in the day.
What am I doing? Focus.
I’d like to say I don’t usually find myself in these sorts of predicaments, but it’s kind of my thing. I pet the dog that bites. I think I can make it—the yellow light, the staff meeting, the rent—but I fall a skosh short. I go out with a mafioso, and it turns out he makes his points with his hands.
People call me free-spirited. The truth is I’m eternally out of control.
Living in my head feels like running as fast as you can downhill. You know when you hit that point where you can’t stop, you can’t even turn if you want to without tumbling ass over teakettle? That’s my normal.
Before Carlo and the bathroom standoff, there was Nick and the long walk on the shoulder of I-97. Paulie and the night in jail. Aaron and the cat fight video. I could blame the ADHD for the sensation-seeking, the risk-taking. And sure, blame the diagnosis for the string of jobs and the speeding tickets.
But the men? That’s me grabbing for a handhold as I fall to my doom. And just like with Carlo, all my relationships blow up in my face. Usually not with a blow to the face, but I’m quite familia
I press my ear to the door. Carlo’s gotten quiet. Maybe he’s cooled off.
“Carlo?”
Nothing. I wait a minute, and then I rise to my feet with caution. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Damn. I’ve sweated so much I’ve got Cher “If I Could Turn Back Time” hair, and there’s blood splatter on the drapey neckline of my gold cocktail dress.
“Carlo?” Still no answer. Maybe he left.
Where did I leave my jacket? If I make a run for it, I’ll need it. It’s forty degrees out. Did I hang it up? I’m sure I didn’t. I probably threw it on the recliner. Or on the floor?
“I’m coming out, okay? I’ll get my shit and go.” I ease away from the door, duck into the shower, and grab my shampoo and conditioner. My crazy, beautiful curls are a legacy from my Jewish grandma on my dad’s side. Hair products aren’t cheap.
I’ve got a bottle in each hand when there’s a thud, a crack, and then the door flies open so hard it immediately swings shut again. I scream and scream at the top of my lungs, grabbing shit and hurling. Air freshener. A shaving brush.
Carlo muscles in, ducking the projectiles, and grabs me by the arm.
“Shut up!” He drags me into the living room, and I buck and flail, knocking over a lamp. He’s heading toward the front door. He’s going to throw me out. That’s good. That’s what I want.
Stop it, Nevaeh. Cooperate. Let him drag you out.
Oh, but I can’t. I’m pure adrenaline, one hundred percent reaction. My arms and legs have their own mind, and it’s not giving up. I kick and flop and scratch and bite. I’m not going down easy. I fall silent, past words, all body, all fight. The sound of grunts and panting and the slap of flesh-on-flesh fill the apartment. We’re almost to the door.
Open it. Please. Open it. Throw me out.
Then, inches from the foyer, my stupid, flailing fist connects with Carlo’s cheek, and his head jerks back. My brain doesn’t even have time to register the hit before I’m dangling in the air, slammed against the wall, Carlo’s hand tightening around my neck. I dig my nails into his forearms, and I pull, but I can’t breathe, and I’ve got no leverage. Blood is trickling into my eye, blinding me.
How did this happen?
I want to take it back, take it all back. I’ll go quietly this time. Keep my mouth shut at dinner. Turn Carlo down when he sidled up to me on a dance floor eight months ago.
“I’m going to put your body in the trunk of your shitty car and drive it into the river,” Carlo spits as he leans his weight forward, bearing down on my chest.
Black spots float across my field of vision. I jerk my knee up, but there’s no room between us. I scrape my nails down his arm, clawing, but my fingers slip down the fabric of his suit jacket. He tightens his grip.
My lungs burn. I want to go home. Please. I’ll fix everything. I’ll change. I’ll make it right.
I want to go back. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.
There’s a loud pounding on the door, mixing with the roar of blood in my ears.
“This is Greg and Don from 10C. We’ve called the police. Whatever’s going on in there needs to stop. The police are going to be here any minute.”
Carlo’s head jerks as if he’s waking up, and he drops me. I collapse to the floor. Tears spring to my eyes, and I gulp down a wheezing breath. My throat burns. Everything’s bright and blurry.
“Open up!” a very serious, very official-sounding voice orders.
Oh, thank the Lord. Greg and Don! They invited me over once when we ran into each other at the trash chute and got to chatting. Carlo had been running late. We shared a bottle of Glenfiddich and Greg showed me his memorabilia from when he competed in the Tour de France back in the early nineties.
Greg and Don don’t like Carlo, so that was the only time we hung out in person, but we follow each other on social media, and Don and I play Words with Friends.
“Nevaeh? Are you okay? What’s going on in there?” That’s Don. He speaks like a cross between an evening newscaster and a Kennedy. I try to answer, but all that comes out is a croak.
“You goddamn bitch,” Carlo hisses, and he runs a hand through his black hair. He’s still wearing his gray suit jacket, but the buttons have come undone. There’s blood splatter on his white dress shirt.
I used to think he was handsome with his sharp cheek bones and his perfectly even teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. His face looks like a skull.
He pinches my chin and squeezes. “When I come back, you’re gone. Every trace of you is gone. Capisce?”
I try to nod, but he won’t loosen his grip.
He spits in my face, hot splatter hitting my cheek, and he digs his nails into my jaw one last time. Then he flings open the front door and strides off. A man shouts, and then Greg and Don are crowding in, two silver foxes fresh from the gym, and they gape at the mess.
“Oh my God!” Greg rushes forward, helping me up, guiding me to the sofa. “Don, we need to really call the cops.”
“No.” I croak, hardly loud enough to be heard. I hack, clearing my throat, and it hurts so bad. “No cops.”
“Of course, we’ll call the cops. You’re bleeding.” Don digs in his pocket for his phone, and panic breaks through my shock. If he makes that call, I’m dead for sure.
“Don, listen,” I pant, voice raspy and thin. Don’s a lawyer. He’s not a trial lawyer, but he knows this town. He’ll understand what I’m about to say. “Carlo and I were at dinner tonight. With Dominic Renelli. No cops.”
Don freezes, exhales a low sigh, and after a pause, he nods. Greg looks confused, but he’ll follow Don’s lead. “Okay. No cops, then. You’d better get out of here.”
“Not a problem.” I slide on the shoes I’d kicked off by the door and grab the yoga pants and T-shirts I keep in the dresser drawer Carlo finally gave me a month ago. I retrieve my coat, shampoo, and conditioner from the floor. There’s no way I’m going to be able to carry all this. I dig through some kitchen drawers, looking for a plastic bag, and I come up empty.
Shit. I need to bail. If Carlo comes back, he could hurt Don and Greg. Greg’s still recovering from knee replacement. I should just run. Screw the shampoo. What am I doing digging in the cupboard?
And then my eye catches on Carlo’s precious messenger bag, sitting on the kitchen island.
You know what?
Screw him.
He can buy himself a new man purse. I dump all his papers on the counter, jam my stuff in, and buckle it closed.
“I thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to have interrupted your evening.” I do a stupid bow-salute thingy. My brain’s still woozy and reeling. Even though I have this awesome superpower where I can pretend horrible shit isn’t actually happening while I’m in the moment, I’m past it. I’m shaking so hard that it’s a miracle my high heels don’t snap.
Don and Greg hover in the doorway, whispering to each other, matching expressions of horror and pity on their faces. “You’re going to go to the hospital, right? Get that looked at?”
“Absolutely,” I lie. From their expressions, they know it. “I’ll message you. Let you know I’m okay. I think I might leave town for a while. Visit family.”
“That’s a good idea.” Don takes my hand and squeezes, pinning me with his kind, crinkly eyes. “I think you’re in over your head here, kiddo.”
“Story of my life.” I give him a peck on the cheek, and then I wink and strut out, swinging Carlo’s messenger bag over my shoulder. I throw Don and Greg a jaunty wave over my shoulder as I head down the stairs. Got to make it look good.
Ten floors in heels is a pain in the ass, but I’m not getting stuck in an elevator with my newest psycho ex if he decides to come back. Especially since I’m liberating his precious messenger bag.
