She slammed back into the chair she had been sitting in and looked out the grimy window of the motel she was in outside Thornton.
How had this happened?
How had this fucking happened?
Her shit, and there wasn’t much of it, was in a storage garage in Boulder.
And her ass was in a hotel because, after Spooks kicked her out, she didn’t have anywhere to go or anyone who would take her in.
This was the only place she could afford, it was a shithole, and it was a killer commute to work in Boulder every day, where she made dick and was paying through the nose in gas to get there.
She needed an apartment.
She had to have a deposit for an apartment.
She snatched up her phone, ran her thumb over it, checked her bank balance.
It would cut. And she’d have to move her own shit, no way she could afford movers.
And she didn’t have anyone to help.
But as much of a shithole as this was, it was eating away at her green.
She had to get out.
Spooks was not taking her back, that much was clear. He wouldn’t even take her calls. So she had to cut her losses with that.
She was stuck.
“How did this fucked-up shit happen?” she snapped, still glaring at her phone.
She needed to get her shit together. Get to work.
She didn’t.
She went to her voicemail. Scrolled through all the marketing messages (stupid motherfuckers), the only ones she got. She found the single voicemail not from a marketing person. One from months ago.
She hit play and speaker.
“Naomi,” his gravelly voice came at her, “Tack. You’re gonna hear about Natalie. Other shit’s goin’ down. It isn’t pretty. You gotta get your ass down to Denver. Chaos will cover you, you have to take leave from work. We’ll put you in a safe house. You’ll have our protection. Détente, Naomi, until this shit is handled. I’m not sure what’s gonna give with this, but I got a feeling it’s gonna get worse before it gets better and I want my children’s mother covered. Call me. We’ll set up a time to meet.” Pause. “Don’t be stubborn, woman. Take care of yourself. If not for you, for Rush, and any feeling you got for Tabby.”
The voicemail ended.
I want my children’s mother covered.
Like she cared dick what he wanted.
Stupid, fucking Tack, her ex, fucked shit up again.
He just had to clean up that Club.
He just had to oust Crank.
He couldn’t just take the huge piles of dough they were making off guns and drugs and broads and sit pretty.
Nooooo.
Not high and mighty Kane “Tack” Allen.
He had to have something good and right to offer his fucking children.
God, but she’d hoped he’d fall flat on his face. She’d soooo fucking hoped that Club would implode and kick his ass out.
But no.
Oh nooooo.
They now had Ride Auto Supply stores and garages in five cities. People actually thought it was cool just to hang there. Cool to buy their air filters and anti-freeze from a member of the Chaos MC. No one in Denver or Fort Fun or C Springs or Boulder or Grand Junction got their wiper blades anywhere else. It was whacked.
And they’d found that brother, the one called Joker, who was a master at custom bike and muscle car design. Got themselves a spread in a goddamn, up-its-own-ass magazine, for fuck’s sake. In it, a picture of all the brothers spread out around a kickass chopper, looking badass and total cool.
They were making money hand over fist with that shit.
No guns. No whores. No dope.
Clean and clear and good and right.
Fuck.
He’d worked hard at it. Earned it through sweat and blood and loss and brotherhood.
And he and that skank were up in their mountain home, raising two boys, that bitch shimmying around Ride in her tight skirts like she ran the fucking joint.
That was Naomi’s.
It should have all been hers.
Now Chew—that asswipe piece of shit . . .
She bet Tack didn’t see that asshole coming.
Then again, Naomi wouldn’t have called that either. Never would have thought Chew would have the balls for it.
She was wrong.
And the only thing that made her lips twitch was that Tack hadn’t called it.
But now women were getting dead.
Reb.
That bitch was hard as nails and about as fun to be around as typhoid, so Naomi liked her.
Shot in the face.
By Chew.
Jesus.
Naomi closed her eyes but opened them again when her ex-husband filled her vision.
She remembered.
She remembered the beginning. Seeing him. That ass. Those blue eyes.
It had all been tequila and downing beers and smoking weed and fucking each other blind and good times and crazy parties and piles of money.
And then . . .
She would never forget, not ever, the look on that man’s face when she’d told him she was carrying Rush.
God.
Joy.
Pure joy.
And when she’d pushed their son out?
Fuck.
Really, she’d lost him then. The minute he held Rush in his arms.
But then came Tabitha.
More joy.
Even Tabitha coming right after Tack’s sister ODed. ODed under his watch.
But a little girl?
Tack was lost.
Lost to Naomi forever.
She remembered.
She remembered calling his name when he first held his baby girl, his fingers wrapped around her little baby throat like it was him making her pulse beat, not Naomi who gave that kid life.
He didn’t even look at her.
It was like she’d disappeared.
He was lost.
He had his son and he had his baby girl, and so he had it all.
Where was she in that mix?
She’d wanted what she should get.
His cock, his attention (all of it) and his money.
Really, kids grew up. Moved out.
It was her that should be his life.
Her.
But it wasn’t her. It was his kids. His little girl. Cleaning up the Club. Taking over.
He just couldn’t rest easy and let things lie.
It had been good. Fucking great.
Why did he have to fuck with a good thing?
She’d gone back to Tack’s name after her second husband, that deadbeat loser, bit it. She did it so Tack would hear about it and get pissed, or that stupid cunt he married would hear about it and get livid.
If he even knew, he didn’t care. Or if she knew, she didn’t care either. Naomi hadn’t heard word one about it and she spread that news wide.
They probably didn’t think about her at all, Tack so busy raising his second family and fucking his bitch and making tons of dough.
Now he wanted her to come down to Denver so he could say to Rush, to fucking Tabby, that he was looking after their mother?
Fuck him.
She could look after herself.
“Yeah, fuck yeah,” she spat. “I can look after my fuckin’ self.”
So she couldn’t move that shitty sofa in her storage unit alone.
She’d find some guy’s cock to suck, give it to him good, and before he spurted the last of his cum, she’d tell him he was helping her move and he should bring a friend.
First, she had to find an apartment.
She’d take the day off and find a place. She didn’t care where she lived, anywhere was better than here.
“I can take care of my own fuckin’ self,” she whispered, staring at her phone but seeing her ex-husband.
Remembering.
Remembering that joy in his face when she told him she was carrying Rush.
And trying not to remember that it lasted a split second before she was in his arms, he was twirling her, goddamn twirling her, his face shoved in her neck, holding her so tight, making her feel precious, making her feel like she was about to hand him the whole world.
“Thank you, baby,” he’d whispered in that rough voice of his. “Fuck, fuck, thank you, baby. We got it all now, Naomi. We got everything we’ll ever need.”
He had everything. Everything he’d ever need.
Rush worshipped his father, and Naomi hadn’t heard from her boy in years.
Tabby was the light of his life, didn’t lose that even when Tack had picked up that nasty skank.
Didn’t lose it.
Had all the love in the world for his girl.