Page 7 of Strider's Misstep

Hesitantly, I glance at the book, and then my gaze lands on my VP, my sergeant-at-arms, and my enforcer in turn. I swallow hard, then speak when I’m sure there’s no unsteadiness in my voice. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

“As fuck,” Shotgun answers.

CHAPTER TWO

JASMINE

SIX MONTHS AGO…

Noting the caller display on my phone, I’m already smiling as I place one hip on my bed, curling up the other leg beside me. “Hey, girl. It’s so good to hear from you.”

“Are you sure?” a tentative voice speaks into my ear.

“Fuck, yeah.” I chuckle. I’d met Sheri eight months back when she and her man, StoryTeller, had sought refuge at the Wretched Soulz Texas Charter’s clubhouse. It had been an explosive entrance, coming in hot through the gates with a rogue member of the Dominators MC after them. Sheri was lucky to be alive. A bullet had hit her backpack, embedding itself in the very book that had brought her and StoryTeller together. Remembering, I sigh, a romantic story, but one for another day. I’d quickly discovered that she’d been carrying precious cargo, and when that news was known, doubly glad she’d be okay. “How’s the babe?”

A wail in the background announces that little Maria isn’t far away. “Grumpy.” Sheri laughs. “She always seems to knowwhen I want a moment to myself. You got her, Jake?” The last three words were a bit muffled, as if she’d turned her head away, so I’m not surprised when I hear StoryTeller’s voice give a confirmatory response, and then the crying fades away. “Jake’s so good with her,” Sheri confides. “A real doting dad.”

She hadn’t expected it would turn out that way. Her pregnancy shocked them both, which is how Sheri knows so much of my life. I’d been in the position of being able to facilitate her choice if she’d wanted things to go the other way. I’d been in the same position a short while before and why she was reticent about making contact today. I know what a surprise pregnancy is like, only mine didn’t have a happy ending. Encouraged to do the “right” thing by the dad, I’d taken the tablets and regretted I had the very next day.

Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? Strider had been so adamant he wasn’t ready to be a father, so I’d done what he wanted. Only, pretty soon, I had doubts. He’s never been the same with me since, and I don’t know why. Our casual sexual relationship had become tense. Strider found excuses to keep his distance until the point came when I couldn’t remember when I last warmed his bed.

Does he blame me for getting pregnant when the condom broke? Or, even with me now on the pill and him still gloving up, does he not want to run the same risk? Or, worse, does he regret the life that could have been and which he pressured me to throw away? Whatever, he and I have never gotten back to the easy relationship we once had.

Not that I have any claim on him. Technically, I’m a club girl, theoretically available to all the men. But Strider had made it known I was only there for him. Even now, when it’s been weeks since he’s asked me to meet his needs, I’m still left alone by the brothers. I’ve naturally fallen into being a sort of house mom—tending bar, looking after the clubhouse, and making sure the other girls stay in line.

“So, what’s it like being a mom?” I ask Sheri, pulling my thoughts away from comparisons between her man and mine.

“Hard work.” She laughs. “I thought babies were supposed to sleep all the time. I fast found out that’s a lie. But enough about me. I rang to see how you were. Tell me something that doesn’t involve talking about expressing milk or diapers.”

I snort. “But you’re loving it, aren’t you?” I don’t need to wait for her reply. I hear it in her laugh. Obliging her, I move to a different topic and prepare to tell her my news. After taking a deep breath, I leap off the cliff and confide, “I’ve written a book.”

There’s silence at the end of the line, then I hear the air leave her lungs in a whoosh. “Abook? Oh my God, Jas. That’s amazing. What’s it about?”

Unable to suppress the grin on my face, I lean back against the pillow. “It’s an MC romance, of course.”

“That’s amazing. It will be brilliant.” Her words tumble out one after another and I appreciate the confidence she has. “You live the life. It’s got to be great. Is it published yet?”

After futilely shaking my head, I say the words, “No. I’m kinda embarrassed, you know? I don’t know if it’s good enough. Before I launch it into the world, I probably need to get it properly edited and proofread. I’ve no clue how to do that.”

“Have you got a cover?”

I’ve got nothing. Just a ton of words written in a document. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause before she asks hesitantly, “Would you let me read it?”

Breathing out heavily, it’s been something I’ve thought about, and partly why I’m so grateful to hear from her. I confirm, “I’d love that. I’m nervous, of course, but you know the genre. I’d like your honest opinion on whether I’m on the right track.” I know she loves the same books as I do, as she’d attended theMotorcycle, Mobsters and Mayhem signing, where she’d picked up the book that ended up saving her life.

“Send it to me,” she demands. “I really can’t wait.”

We spend a couple of moments exchanging pleasantries, then end the call. Before I can have second thoughts, I send the promised email and attachment.

I then try and forget that someone else will be reading my words, expecting it to be an agonising few weeks before I receive any comment from her, and certainly don’t anticipate getting positive feedback. In my head, my story makes sense. I cried, laughed and raged while I was writing it. But I have no idea if I translated the images in my mind sufficiently well to the written word. Was my language too simple, my grammar incorrect, the sentences awkward, too long, too short? Was my manuscript going to be a disaster in a myriad of any possible ways? My education had focused on being academic, not creative writing. Who the hell am I to believe I could write a book? Or, at least, one other people would want to read.

Despite my fears about my first book’s reception, those voices, now having found an audience, just keep speaking in my head. Deciding even if I’m the only person ever to read my stories, I won’t stop. I’m finding it’s as much fun writing books as I have reading them.

It would be amazing if I could actually make some money doing this.Part of me is terrified that I’ll soon be wearing out my welcome with the Wretched Soulz MC.

When I first arrived at the clubhouse looking for sanctuary, I’d made up my mind I’d do anything I had to, just to have their powerful protection on my side. I’d rationalised that I’d become accustomed to being raped before, so what would it matter if I had to let any of the men in the club use my body? The difference would be that it would be with my consent this time. With no other option, I considered it a necessary evil to keep me safe.I knew motorcycle clubs looked after their property. Paying for the privilege of shelter and security with my god-given assets wasn’t too great a price. Nothing they could do could be worse than my previous experience.

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