Erase (Sons of Gods Book 4) Elizabeth

Knox & London Kingsley

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 ERUPT
SONS OF GODS MC
BOOK 3
ELIZABETH KNOX
LONDON KINGSLEY
Erupt

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblances to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Erupt. Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Knox & London Kingsley. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. For
information, contact E. Knox & London Kingsley.
Editing: Kim Lubbers, Knox Publishing
Proofreading: Beth Hale, Magnolia Author Services
Formatting: R. Epperson, Knox Publishing
Cover Designer: Clarise Tan, CT Cover Creations
Photographer: Wander Aguiar, Wander Aguiar Photography
Created with Vellum
 CONTENTS

About Erupt / Blurb

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue

Up Next!
About the Author: London
About the Author: Elizabeth
 ABOUT ERUPT / BLURB

I didn’t think I’d ever love someone again.

Zeus
As the President for the Sons of Gods MC, I’ve lived a hard life. I’ve made many mistakes, some
greater than others. There’s not a day goes by where I don’t think about those mistakes.
We all thought the worst was behind us, but an unexpected death rocked our worlds. It made me
rethink everything, and in the process I used alcohol to numb my pain.
Amira recommended grief counseling to me, and I wasn’t keen on the idea. Over time—and
constant nagging on my daughter’s side—I ultimately gave in.
I never thought I’d meet a woman who’s been through as much hell as I have in grief counseling,
but I did. She’s constantly on my mind, and I know I have no place pursuing her in the first place, but I
can’t stay away.

Jolene
Six years ago, I lost my husband and seven-year-old daughter in a car crash. Their loss left me a
shattered wreck—but over time, I put my life back together. I went back to school and eventually
became a counselor, determined to help others the same way my counselors helped me.
Now I’ve opened a private practice in a new city and am ready to truly start again.
The last thing I need is to get mixed up with the leader of a motorcycle club—not to mention a
potential client, too.
But when Zeus walks into the grief group I run on a volunteer basis, everything about him
overturns my preconceived notions about MCs. And no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about
him.
If he continues to pursue me, I don’t think I’ll be able to say no.

***Erupt is the third book in the Sons of Gods MC series by Elizabeth Knox and the first book of
the series featuring London Kingsley as co-writer. London will complete the rest of the series with
Elizabeth. The Sons of Gods MC is intended for mature audiences only (18+) and may include
triggering subject matter. Please proceed with caution.
 PROLOGUE

3 MONTHS AGO . . .
Zeus
Sweat drips from my head as I stand outside in this intense July humidity. We have a party going
on inside right now, and I could’ve retreated back to the privacy of my office, but I wanted to get out
and have some room to move around. The club is like a can of sardines right now, packed to the brim.
The only person I give a shit about who isn’t here is one of my daughters, Amira. Calli’s here
since she’s shacked up with Eros, one of my men. Pan’s ol’ lady, Trix, is here . . . and Trix is good
friends with Calli. Otherwise, the only other ladies here are clubwhores or some people my boys
have pulled off the street for a good night of fun. Maybe Amira will show up at some point tonight. It
would be nice to see her, especially since we’ve all been working on our relationships.
Calli and I have come the furthest so far, but Amira and I are a totally different story. Amira
barely remembers me from when she was a little one, and I don’t blame her. I left them when they
were small. Calli barely remembered me from what she’s said, and if she barely remembered me,
then I question if Amira ever did in the first place. She probably only knows me from what her mother
or sister told her, and knowing their mother, she didn’t say anything overly kind. Not with the way I
hurt her—the way I hurt them.
Razi didn’t know it back then, but I only left because I thought it was the only option to keep them
safe. Many years ago, there was a notorious MC president named Rage. He was the president of a
club of misfits, ex-cons, felons, and some of the most despicable people on the planet. It didn’t matter
what they did. He’d take them in so their numbers would increase. This goes without saying, but the
man had no moral code whatsoever. He’d do whatever it took to keep himself in power, and he’d hurt
whomever he needed to in order to keep it.
One day, I received a call from the president of the Reapers Rejects MC up in Billings, Montana.
He’s long dead now, but Boone was a damn good man. He received information where Rage had told
a group of people how he had a plan to go after my children and their mother at their daycare. He
blatantly stated he knew the worst way to hurt me was to go after my kids, so he formed this plan, but
before he acted on it, I discovered what he was prepared to do. In order to save my wife and my two
beautiful baby girls, I broke Razi’s heart in the worst way possible. I told her she and the girls were
only holding me back, weighing me down, but the reality was they were the only thing lifting me up. If
anything, letting them out of my life was my biggest regret. I had a woman who loved me
wholeheartedly, and being a father was what I was always meant to be.
The club is my family, sure . . . but nothing compares to seeing your blood walking around every
single day.
I bring the ice-cold bottle of beer to my lips and take a swig. The cool chill of the liquid isn’t
even enough to cool me down. I guess that’s the lucky part about being in Birmingham, Alabama. It’s
so hot down here some days that the Devil couldn’t even live here.
I lean over the railing of the porch and look out at the pitch-blackness in front of me. I can see for
maybe about forty feet thanks to the pole lights I have in front of the club and the ones leading to the
garage we have on the side. Otherwise, I can’t see a thing for miles. The nearest neighbor is maybe
three miles away, which gives us plenty of space to be on our own and do our own thing.
The club’s even located on a back road, but we can get to some state ones within a few minutes.
We’re right around the corner from civilization, pretty much. Out of nowhere, I spot a set of headlights
coming down the road, but I hear the engine. Whoever it is, they’re booking it down the street. There
must be some sort of fire lit under their ass. Around these parts, it’s more than likely some teenagers
who are out past curfew, terrified their father’s going to skin their hides when they get home.
At least, it’s what I think until the car comes peeling into the club’s parking lot. Once the car
comes under the light, I know it instantly. It’s Amira’s. She slams on her brakes and throws her car
into park before throwing open the door and running straight over to me.
As she’s running, her hands are shaking violently, and tears are cascading down her cheeks. She
looks exhausted, worn out, and naturally upset. “Dad, I . . . I tr-tried calling b-but no one is a-
answering,” Amira chokes on her words, and her emotion is evident in her voice.
I nod my head and put my hands on her shoulders, giving them a good squeeze. “Okay, do me a
favor and slow down. Take in a breath. You’re shakin’ like a dog out in the rain, baby girl.”
Amira tries to do as I’ve asked, and she inhales deeply through her nose. “I-I got a call from the
local hospital. Mom was in a car accident and . . . and t-they need us to get down there s-straight
away. They wouldn’t t-tell me a-anything over the p-phone, and I—” Amira’s struggling the more she
speaks, so I pull her against my chest and hold onto her tightly. Not for too long, but for long enough. I
just need her to know I’m here for her, but since this matter is so pressing, I have to find Calli and get
the three of us to the hospital as soon as possible.
I let go of Amira and look right into her eyes. “Go sit in the car. I’m going to drive, okay? I just
have to go in and find your sister really quick.”
Amira nods, and she heads for the car as I head for my club. I toss my beer in the trash and walk
through the crowd of people. There are flashing lights, and the music is louder than I’d like it to be,
but I’ll do whatever I need to find Calli. There’s one sure way to find her, so all I have to do is find
her friends. She’ll surely be with them.
I head through the main area, and clubwhores mixed with my brothers are amongst a few people
who aren’t affiliated with the club. Once I finish in the main area, I look in the kitchen and then head
into my office since Calli has a key to it. She’s not in either place, so I head upstairs and go to Eros’
room. Sure enough, I find my daughter sitting on the bed against the headboard, reading a book.
“Hey, Dad. Everything all right?”
I shake my head, not wanting to lie to her. “Your sister just showed up here at the club. I don’t
have all of the information, but your mother was in a car accident. I don’t know anything else, but we
need to get to the hospital and see how she is.”
“Shit, I need to text Connor and let him know. He, Dion, and Kratos are still out on that run you
sent them on a few hours ago,” Calli tells me, and I completely forgot they weren’t here. The day has
gone by in the blink of an eye, and with what Amira told me, I’m a bit distracted.
“Okay. Text him once we’re in the car. Your sister is really upset.”
“She would be. She and Mom are extremely close,” Calli tells me as she gets off the bed. She
rises and slips on some sneakers, then the two of us head out of the room she shares with Eros when
he stays here. We head down the stairwell. Once we’re at the bottom, I grab onto her shoulder. Calli
turns back to look at me. “Go ahead and get into the car. I need to find Hades.” She gives me a nod, so
I know she heard me, and I go through the crowd until I find my VP.
“I’m heading out. Amira showed up distraught. Razi’s been in a car accident. The hospital called
her, so I don’t know anything else.”
Hades’ eyes widen in shock. “You want me to shut this down and for us to head there with you?”
I shake my head. Knowing Razi, she’d get pissed off if the entire club came to the hospital. “No,
you keep things under control and let me handle things with my wife and the girls. I’m sure Eros,
Dion, and Kratos will end up meeting us at the hospital later, though.”
Hades shakes his head in understanding, and I pat him on the shoulder before exiting the
clubhouse. I need to get to Razi, but I need to be there for my girls as well.
I waste no time getting behind the wheel, and as I’m driving toward the state road, I ask Amira
which hospital her mother was taken to. She’s at Birmingham Memorial, so I head straight there,
going far past the posted speed limit. We all need answers, and we need them now. I’m not sure
where we should go once we get to the hospital, so I drive over to the emergency room and park in
their parking lot.
The three of us get out of Amira’s car and head straight into the emergency room.
“Hi, how can I help you?” a lovely woman from behind the glass asks us, and I walk straight up to
her.
“Hello. My daughter received a call that my wife was brought in. She was brought in from a car
accident.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s her name? I’ll look her up in the system and see what I
can tell you.”
“Razi, her name is Razi,” I state, and the brutal reality of what’s happening hits me. The woman
asks a few questions, and Calli takes over. She answers every single question flawlessly, and we’re
only waiting for a few minutes before someone comes to get all of us.
We’re shuffled into a small room. It only has five chairs in it, and the walls are an off-beige color.
There are two paintings of flowers I couldn’t even begin to name, and the clock on the wall ticks
tirelessly. My daughters are sitting on either side of me, and I’m holding onto both of their hands.
Sure, their mother and I had a hard, tumultuous relationship, but I still love their mother with all of
my heart. She was my first true love, and she’s the woman who gave me these beautiful girls. I need
Razi to be okay. Not only for me but for our daughters too.
Five minutes pass by before there’s a knock at the door, and it opens. An older doctor comes in.
He has a beard and mustache, and glasses that come to the end of his nose. “Hello, I’m Dr.
Cummings.” As he introduces himself, he takes in a breath and sits in the chair across from us. “I’m
so sorry to inform you of this, but Razi passed away after she was brought into the emergency room.
Our trauma team did everything they could to try and bring her back, but unfortunately, her injuries
were too severe.”
Calli’s mouth falls open from disbelief, while Amira begins shaking violently from the news. I
haven’t even had a second to process this news because I’m so concerned about my daughters. “She
was on her w-way to m-meet me f-for a late d-dinner,” Amira sobs uncontrollably, and the doctor
visibly looks like he feels for my daughter.
“How did the accident happen? Is any of that stated in her file?”
The doctor shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. That’s something you’d have to ask the police
department. I’m sure they have an incident number for it. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Are we allowed to see her?” Calli asks, and the doctor’s expression immediately shifts.
“You most certainly can, but I’d highly advise against it. I doubt your mother looked anything like
she does now, and to preserve her memory, I’m sure you’d rather remember her looking like she did
while she was living.” Dr. Cummings takes his time telling Calli this, and I can tell with every word
he’s trying to tell her as delicately as he can that this would be a terrible idea.
Calli nods and licks her lips, her grief sinking in with every passing moment. While my daughters
are processing their mother’s untimely demise, I’m caught wondering what the fuck happened. I know
the police will give us a report, but it won’t have enough details. I want to think this was a horrible
tragedy, but Razi was still my wife. Sure, we hadn’t been a true husband or wife for many years, but
we never signed the divorce papers either.
Dr. Cummings asks us if we have any more questions, but we don’t. He directs us to speak to a
funeral home so we can arrange for Razi’s body to be taken, but I want to make sure everything is
done the way Razi would want it to be. She always told me when she was younger that when she
died, she wanted to be put into the ground as soon as possible, so we won’t delay her wishes.
Amira, Calli, and I exit the emergency room, and once we’re in the parking lot, three bikes are
pulling in. Eros parks his bike and rushes over to Calli, pulling her into his arms. Kratos and Dion
come up. Kratos is simply a brother within the club, but Dion is my girls’ younger half-brother. He’s
my son, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to see his sisters hurting the way they are right now.
“What happened?” Kratos questions while Connor is holding onto Calli. Dion looks at me and
then at Amira, who can’t contain her pain.
“Razi was in a car accident, and we came here. They told us she succumbed to her injuries.” I
keep what I’m telling them plain and simple because I don’t want to upset my girls even more, but I
know they’re going to be in so much pain for a long time.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Prez,” Kratos tells me, and Dion surprises me. He goes over to Amira and
enfolds his sister in his embrace. They aren’t close in the least bit, but he’s trying really hard right
now. He’s trying so hard to be there for his sisters. Maybe we can get through all of this as a family.
 ONE

Jolene
“Watch out!”
I freeze as everything around me seems to go in slow motion. The mover carrying three boxes
piled in his arms trips coming into the house, and the top box—clearly labeled fragile—tumbles off
the stack, landing on the hardwood floor with a crashing sound of breaking glass.
The mover, a tall, muscular young man, probably around twenty years old, gives me a sheepish
glance. “So sorry about that,” he says. “The company will pay for any damages.”
It was an accident, I remind myself. He certainly didn’t mean to do it on purpose.
“That’s okay,” I reassure him, slipping into what one of my clients had recently called my
“counselor voice”—gentle and caring but also carefully controlled. Choosing every word, reminding
myself to remain nonjudgmental no matter what someone says.
The mover skirts around the fallen box, and I swoop in to rescue it, trying to ignore the sound of
tinkling glass shards shifting around inside.
It’s labeled as belonging in the living room, but I take it into my new home office and set it on my
desk. I’ll open that one first, I promise myself, then head back out to oversee the rest of the move-in
process.
As the movers bring in more boxes, I direct them to specific rooms, determined to help with the
sorting process as much as I reasonably can.
Before they leave, Andre, the lead mover, brings a claims form from his company to me.
“You can either fill this out by hand and mail it in, or you can go to the website listed up top and
fill it out online.” He hands me the form. “Sorry about Josh—he’s new.”
I thank him, and then he and his crew are gone, leaving me totally alone in my brand-new house
for the first time.
It’s the second time in six months that I’ve moved, but the first time the move has been into a
house I own. I wanted to wait to put down roots in Birmingham until I was certain my counseling
practice would thrive here.
Okay. To be honest, part of me resisted moving from a rented apartment to an owned house.
After all, finding the perfect home had been a dream Allan and I had shared.
I stand in my living room, surveying the boxes I still have to unpack.
Allan would have approved of this place. It was exactly what we had discussed. Built in 1940,
the Craftsman style bungalow has a glassed-in front porch, hardwood floors, three bedrooms, and one
bathroom—when we’d made our wish list, the three rooms had included a shared bedroom and a
room for Danielle.
Now it’s all mine.
I move to the French doors opening out to the back deck. The deck was added sometime after the
original construction. The deck overlooks a long, sloping yard that leads down to a walking trail. I
stare out at the enormous backyard, surrounded by a tall wooden fence.
Danielle would have loved this. I can picture my daughter as she was six years ago—only seven
years old. I try to imagine what she would look like now. At thirteen, would she have looked more
like me at that age, tall and lanky and gawky, or more like Allan, round-cheeked and muscular?
Just before the accident, I promised her we’d get a puppy.
I lean against the door frame, dropping my head to the side and sigh heavily.
No matter how old she is now, Danielle will always be six in my mind, and I can picture her
playing in the backyard with the dog.
I might not be able to get Danielle back—I know that will never happen, though it took a long time
to come to terms with that harsh truth—suddenly, I’m overcome with the need to make at least part of
that old dream come true.
I can still get a dog.
My mind made up, I step back inside the house and close the French doors behind me. Moving
into my office, I pick up my phone, once again noting the box of broken, fragile items. I swipe the
phone open and search for the nearest shelter. Once I’ve copied the address into my notes, I turn my
attention to the box of broken, fragile items on my desk.
I rip away the packing tape and flip back one of the flaps of the cardboard box. That’s when I
realize what’s inside it.
Framed photographs.
I take them out one by one, shaking the glass back into the box and gently spreading out the photos
across my desktop. Even the bubble wrap I packed them in couldn’t protect the glass from a drop like
that.
The last photo I remove from the very bottom of the box is a family portrait.
I stare down at it, remembering the day we went to have it taken.
Allan had worn his favorite blue plaid dress shirt, and at the last minute, I decided that Danielle
and I would dress in blue, as well.
In the picture, Danielle holds a white stuffed rabbit, the one the Easter Bunny had brought her just
a few months before. The bunny is the same one I buried her with.
A jagged crack runs through the frame’s glass right down the middle.
Allan had teased me about how much time and attention I put into choosing the frame for the
photo.
It’s just an object, I remind myself, but still, a tear escapes, trembling on my lashes for a moment
before slipping down my cheek.
I brush it away even as I remind myself that it’s okay to cry.
What would I tell my clients?
That pain and grief are natural, even this long afterward.
That grief doesn’t end. It’s merely tucked away into a corner of your heart. And it’s natural for it
to come out again, sometimes at unexpected moments.
“The frame can be replaced,” I remind myself aloud.
 It won’t be the same. Then again, my life isn’t the same as it was before. I’m not the same.
For just an instant, I allow myself the maudlin thought that the frames are a lot like my heart—
shattered beyond repair. But the broken parts can be replaced, I remind myself. That won’t change the
fact that the glass was broken, just like my heart was broken. But it will help me to hang up the
pictures. Just like I’ve replaced parts of my heart, choosing to remember the good parts of my life
before.
I blow out a breath and pick up my phone again, this time making a quick list of the number and
sizes of the frames I’ll need to replace the ones with the broken glass.
I won’t have time this week to replace them all, but I promise to make time over the weekend.
Maybe after the grief counseling group, I run on a volunteer basis in the nearby Episcopal church.
I stay in my chair long enough to do five deep, calming inhalations, blowing each one out slowly,
sitting with my grief for another few moments before allowing it to fade into the background, once
again becoming part of the complex pattern that has led me to become the woman I am now.
Then I move to the kitchen, where I play a pop-music list from my phone, allowing the bright,
cheery music to lift my spirits as I continue unpacking in there—boxes of items with fewer painful
memories, even though many of the dishes were wedding gifts.
At least they’re all intact.

The next morning, I get up early and double-check my calendar. I only have one client today, one of
my regulars, so I head to my office a few miles away to see her for her eight o’clock session.
Georgia Adams is an easy enough client to work with, all things considered. She’s been going
through a rough divorce over the last year and has been working through her issues surrounding her
now ex-husband. I can’t blame her—he seems to have been a complete jerk to her, though, of course,
as a counselor, I’m not supposed to say as much.
But today, I’m feeling particularly defiant, and as she finishes telling me yet another story about
his insistence that she behaves according to his overly strict ideas of feminine propriety, I nod
sympathetically, and the words just slip out. “Sounds like he was a real asshole sometimes.”
Georgia blinks, startled, then laughs aloud. “You know, he really was.”
“It took a lot of strength to leave him,” I remind her.
She sits up straighter and nods. “You’re right. It did.”
We finish the session by discussing other ways in which Georgia is stronger now than she was
before she left her ex. By the time she leaves, she’s holding her head up a little higher than before.
I file away the knowledge that sometimes, even in a counseling session, saying the wrong thing
can end up being absolutely right.
As I get ready to lock up my office not far from downtown, a single room in a house that used to
be a family dwelling, it occurs to me that some of the family pictures I need to reframe might look
good in here.
Maybe it’s time to let my clients see a little bit more of who I am underneath the role of counselor.
I’ve hidden it away until now, still too new at the job to be comfortable giving my clients that much
insight into my personal life. I’ve had a private practice for only six months, and before that, I did all
my counseling work through Jacksonville State University in a small town a little over an hour and a
half from my new Birmingham home.
 But now that I am an LPC, a Licensed Professional Counselor, I have a much better sense of my
professional identity.
I’m willing to let some of my personal life show through.
I snort to myself as I head out to my small SUV.
Personal life.
Right now, that consists of Pamela, the only friend I’ve made in Birmingham so far, and a few
evening television shows.
But that’s about to change. I am headed to the shelter, where I’m hoping I can find the perfect
puppy.

Dogs begin barking loudly as Anton, a tall, thin teenage volunteer with a shock of bright red hair,
leads me through the shelter to a pen holding a Labrador retriever mother and her litter of mixed-
breed puppies.
“These guys won’t be ready to go for another week or two, but you can choose one now, and we
will hold him for you.”
I look at the squirming mass of puppies. They’re super cute. But I can’t help thinking about
everything that goes along with getting a puppy—mostly the house training that I’ll have to do.
Suddenly, it seems like too much.
“Let me think about it,” I say. I turn to leave, and a damp nose nudges my hand from the cage next
to me. I give a little squeak and glance down. A fluffy brown and white dog with curly fur stares up at
me with golden-brown eyes.
As soon as I make eye contact, it gives a single soft bark.
“Well, hello,” I say, crouching down in front of the wire-mesh gate. “Who are you?”
“This is Bailey,” Anton says. “She’s about three years old, we think.”
The dog sticks her nose through her cage again and, this time, licks the back of my hand.
“Can I see her? Outside of the cage, I mean.”
“Sure.” Anton opens the gate, and I sit down on the floor, expecting to have to call the dog to me
to overcome some initial shyness.
Instead, Bailey walks up to me and, with a funny little hop, puts her front legs around my
shoulders.
“Bailey’s a hugger,” Anton says.
“Ohh,” I coo, wrapping my arms around her deep barrel chest. “Aren’t you just a sweetheart?”
“She’s only been with us for about a week,” Anton continues. “Her owner passed away recently,
and he didn’t have any relatives to take Bailey in, so she ended up here.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” I whisper. “I know how that feels.”
Bailey drops down off my shoulders and crawls into my lap, though she’s far too big and hangs
off either side.
“She hasn’t done that with anyone else,” Anton says, a laugh underscoring his voice.
I run my hair through her soft, curly coat. “Do you know what kind of dog she is?”
“Well, she didn’t come in with any papers or anything, but we’re pretty sure she’s a mix of poodle
and Australian Shepherd. That would make her an Aussiedoodle, and if we had the papers for her,
she’d be a pretty expensive dog.”
 I take her face in my hands and rub my nose against the top of her head. “I don’t care about that. I
just care who she is, not what she is. Is she house trained?”
“Perfectly,” Anton says. “In fact, I’m surprised no one has picked her up yet.”
“That’s because you were waiting for me, weren’t you, Bailey baby?” I say to the dog that
apparently will be going home with me now.
“Should I get the paperwork started?” Anton asks, grinning widely.
“Definitely.” I gently move Bailey off my lap and stand up. She leans against my legs.
“Australian Shepherds are work dogs,” Anton tells me. “She’ll do best if she has some kind of
perceived job.”
I glance down at her, dropping my hand to the top of her head and scratching behind her ears, and
an idea begins to form.
“What do you think about learning to be a therapy dog, Bailey?” I ask—but it’s a rhetorical
question. I can already tell Bailey and I are going to get along great. And if she does as well in
therapy training as I suspect she will, my clients are going to love her too.
 TWO

Zeus
I can hardly believe it’s been three fucking months since we laid Razi to rest. I found a local
mosque somehow, by the grace of the Gods, really. Who knew there would be one within an hour of
Birmingham, Alabama.
It’s October now, and I don’t know where all this time went. I’m grateful it’s not hot as balls out
here anymore, but with each passing day, I’m finding the most basic of things are harder to do. Truth
be told, I never thought Razi’s death would impact me so much. Maybe it’s the gruesomeness of
knowing my own morality that sticks with me every day. Maybe it’s because I pushed Razi away to
keep her safe, and she died in a car accident. What I did all those years ago seems pretty fucking
stupid of me now. At the end of the day, all I ever wanted for her was for her to be safe . . . and now
she’s in the ground.
I’m back at the edge of the property with my gun and a beer. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my
office lately and figured getting out here would do me some good. So, I’ve got some targets lined up
against the woods, and I’ve had some shooting practice.
I’ve been out here for a few hours, since about ten this morning, and I’ve killed an eighteen-pack
already. Amira had the audacity to come speak to me the other day and suggest I should quit drinking.
I pretty much laughed in her face because life is hard as fuck, and if I want to drink, I’m going to damn
well do it. She got her feelings hurt and left in a hurry, but I could’ve been kinder to her as well.
Out of my two girls, Amira is my soft one. Calli is as solid as an ox mentally. She doesn’t look
rough around the edges, but she is. She’s the kind of woman who can go through hell and somehow
walk out of it unscathed. Amira, though . . . Amira is the type of woman who you can read from a mile
away. She does a shit job of hiding her emotions, and she doesn’t know how to master a poker face
for the life of her. She’s the type of woman who always wants to be in your business, but she does it
because she cares. I love her to death, but after Razi passed, I hoped Amira would toughen up a little
bit. Her mother was strong, but Razi’s strength was a lot like Calli’s. The only difference is that Razi
let you know exactly where her mind was and told you exactly how you disappointed her or let her
down. I smile thinking about it because it became something I love about the woman.
I just hope Amira will find her strength like her sister has. She isn’t weak by any means but
finding the words to describe Amira can be difficult. She has so many amazing qualities about her, but
if she could hold her chin high and tell the world to go fuck itself, she’d be that much stronger.
 I point my gun at the target and shoot until there are no more bullets in my gun. I don’t have any
more ammo with me either, and I only have one more beer left. I guess my time is ticking out here.
I’m so frustrated with life. With myself. With not being able to protect Razi. I can’t count the
demons that have filled my head every day since her death. Sure, she was my wife . . . but we didn’t
have a good marriage. Our marriage had dissolved with betrayal and hurt feelings, so why am I letting
her death torture me so much? I don’t even understand it, to be honest. I don’t understand it in the least
bit.
If I had known how things would’ve turned out . . . I don’t know if I would’ve made the same
decisions I did all those years ago. I think that’s what’s truly plaguing me. A guilty conscience filled
with regrets. Regrets I can’t change.
I slide my gun back into my holster and finish the rest of the beer in my hand. I toss the empty can
in the cardboard container and grab the last full beer, crack it open and take a swig. I know the
alcohol won’t help forever, but it’s helping the sting for now.
The crunching of boots against the ground pulls my attention away from my inner thoughts, so I
turn around to find Amira walking toward me. Her hair’s pulled up in a ponytail, and she’s in a nice
jacket with some jeans. “I have to admit, I was shocked to know you got out of the office for once.”
“Yeah, well, even prisoners get outside for an hour a day.”
Amira smiles softly, “You’re not a prisoner, Dad.”
That’s where she’s wrong. I’m a prisoner to my own mind. “I’m surprised to see you here again
so soon. I figured I pissed you off the other day.”
Amira rolls her eyes. “You did. Royally, in fact, but you were out of my life for over twenty years
. . . you don’t get to be out of it for any longer than that. You kind of reached the maximum for a ‘kid
break’.” Amira doesn’t realize it, but her words slap me flat across the face. It’s not like I don’t
deserve it, though. I do.
“What did you come all the way out here for?” I ask, figuring she can get to the bottom of what she
wants.
“I came here to check on you. Seeing you out of your office is a positive, but the empty case of
beer next to you is disappointing. Did you kill those over the last day, or has it been a couple?”
Amira has no idea how much I’ve been drinking. “We had a small get-together last night. I figured
I’d take the empty cans and use them for target practice. This is only my second of the day,” I don’t
have to lie to her . . . but yet I am. For fuck’s sake, she’s my daughter, not my mother.
“Oh, okay. Cool. How was target practice?” Amira looks at my holster, and I remember I put my
gun away a few minutes ago.
“Good. Ran out of bullets, so I can’t complain. You change your mind about learning how to shoot
yet?” Amira doesn’t want to know how to use a gun, but I think she needs to know how to defend
herself. Her own brother and sister have been trying to advise her that it’s always a positive thing to
be able to protect yourself, but Amira doesn’t want to cause anyone any harm. I understand her
reasoning, but I do hope she’ll change her mind at some point.
“Maybe someday, Dad, but that day won’t be today.” Amira shrugs her shoulders and looks
around. We have so much space out here. It makes me feel damn lucky that I bought the property when
I did. We have over two hundred acres located on a back road just outside of Birmingham. It doesn’t
take too long to get into town when we need to, and I’m thankful for that.
“Fair enough, but when the day comes, you’d better come to me.”
“I already promised Dion, I’d let him show me.” Amira catches me off guard. Since Razi’s death,
Dion and Amira have become so close. I can’t express my gratitude that the two of them are trying to
have a relationship.
“Guess he beat me to the punch, huh?”
“Yeah, he did,” Amira tells me as I grab the case of beer and start walking back toward the
clubhouse. Amira walks alongside me, and the two of us have some chit-chat while we walk.
“I take it you didn’t just come out here to check on me.” I raise both of my brows and cast an
accusatory glance. I think Amira forgets I know her pretty damn well sometimes.
She swallows hard. “I did, actually, but I wanted to run something by you. Something I think might
actually help you a lot.” Ah, there it is.
“And what would that be?” I have to admit, I’m really fucking curious now.
“There’s a local church that has grief counseling meetings. They’re starting a new group next
week, and I think you should join. I think it would do you some good to talk to people about mom’s
death or how her death is impacting you. Sometimes you don’t even need to talk because it’s just nice
knowing that you’re not alone in your pain.”
“Have you gone to this type of shit before?” I question her, realizing I sound like a total asshole as
I’m speaking.
“Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did. You always mean it that way because you’ve been a callous asshole lately. You’re
pushing me away every chance you get when all I’m trying to do is help you. You’re drinking yourself
into an early grave, and you’re turning into some person who thrives on solitude. You’ve never been
like that, Dad, and the sad part is I wouldn’t even know that. The guys in the club have told me what
you used to be like, and Mom’s death really affected you. That’s okay. It’s affected a lot of us,
especially me and Calli . . . but you have to try to do something for yourself. If not for you, do it for
Calli and me. Just go to one counseling meeting for us.”
Fucking hell. She’s doing the worst thing a child can do to a parent. It’s an ultimatum, really. An
‘if you really love us, you’ll do this’ kind of ultimatum.
“Please, will you just try it? Just a couple of times?” Amira’s pleading with me, but she knows
damn well I can’t say no to her. Not with how she just prefaced this ‘plea’ of hers.
“Fine, but I’m not going to make any more promises. It’s not like I’m going to be a changed man or
whatever after going to a couple of them,” I grumble, and Amira’s lips curve into a soft smile. I know
all she wants is the best for me, and if she thinks going to a counseling group could help, I should at
least give it a shot.
Amira and I continue walking up to the clubhouse, and once we get to the back side of it, we head
in through the back door. We walk down the hallway, past my office and the kitchen, until we’re in the
main living area.
“Shit, I heard a rumor you were outside in the sun, but I thought someone was lyin’ to me.” Ares
cackles, and I shoot him a glare.
“Oh, Dion!” Amira catches sight of her brother, and within an instant, she’s heading over to spend
some time with him.
“In all seriousness, Prez, it’s good to see you out and about,” Ares tells me.
“It’s nice to be out today,” I admit, and Ares smirks.
“Yeah, I’m gonna be headin’ out to a fight with Calli later. Figure what better thing is there to do
on a nice day like this than go watch some idiots bust their heads open.” Ares snickers, and I shake
my head at his antics.
Ares and Calli have an interesting relationship. Calli isn’t close with her half-brother like Amira
is, but Ares is almost like Calli’s brother. It gives me some peace knowing my daughters have
brotherly men in their lives who will protect them at any cost. Now, Calli has Eros since he’s her ol’
man, but if anything were ever to happen between the two of them, I know Ares would have no
problem protecting my daughter. I doubt anything ever would but having someone who you
undoubtedly know would keep your child from harm is a positive thing.
I’m going to give this group counseling thing a shot simply to make Amira happy, but I’m not going
to get sucked into it for life.
I’ll go for a few sessions, but that’s it. Maybe if I go, she’ll get off my case for a while.
 THREE

Jolene
I wake the next morning to a cold nose nuzzling my neck.
“Okay, Bailey. I’m up. I’m up.” I push her away and glance at the clock.
Yeah, I definitely have time for a run before I have to get ready for work. So I get up, drag on my
running clothes and shoes and pull my long, dark blonde hair back into a ponytail.
I mapped out the running route I planned to take in my car a few days before my actual move-in
date, knowing I’d be too busy to do it after I’d moved in.
The first mile is the hardest, as usual. My body complains, telling me it thinks this is a terrible
idea. But by mile two, I’ve settled into the rhythm, hit my stride, and can pay attention to my
surroundings. That’s one of the things I love about being a runner—it lets me see the world around me
up close in a way that feels more personal than it does when I’m driving, encapsulated in a car,
separated from everything by glass and metal.
My new neighborhood is beautiful, with several of Birmingham’s rolling hills and tall live oak
trees providing plenty of shade, something I’ll definitely appreciate during the hot summer months.
And when I get home, Bailey’s there to greet me, her tail wagging. The night before, she slept on a
brand-new pet pillow beside my bed, apparently trained by her previous owner not to climb on
furniture. Once again, I’m glad of my decision to get an older dog.
“Hey, beautiful,” I greet her. “You want to go for a walk?”
Apparently, she knows the word walk, because she barks twice, excitedly, and turns in joyful
circles as I get her leash and clip it to her collar.
I use her walk as a cool-down from my run, still thinking about how much I love my new
neighborhood. It’s calm and peaceful this early in the morning. My neighbors are just waking up and
getting ready to head to work.
This is so different from both the apartment I just left and the one I rented in grad school in
Jacksonville, Alabama. Even the nicest apartments came with a certain level of commotion from
neighbors, like the one Allan and I shared when we were married—the one we brought Danielle
home to when she was born.
The one we were making plans to leave right before the accident.
It had been part of a small complex, also in a quiet neighborhood, like this one.
The neighborhood I spent hours and hours running through after the accident.
 I shake off the memories of that time.
“I sure have been thinking about all that a lot the last few days,” I tell Bailey as she sniffs the
grass and pauses to do her business. “Probably because of those pictures.”
Back home, I let Bailey off the leash and take a shower, getting ready for the volunteer grief group
starting in a little over two hours.
I’ve been running the group for the last three months as part of a community outreach I am
participating in with several other counselors in the area.
It’s been good for my business, too. A few of the group members have chosen to do individual
counseling with me, and a couple of others have referred their friends to my private practice.
Originally, part of the reason I’d participated in it was that it gave me the hours I needed for my
licensing. Now, however, I stayed with it because I enjoyed it—not necessarily hearing people’s
stories of grief and pain, but because of how often I saw them break through their personal misery,
coming to a place where they could begin to see their way to happiness again.
As I walk into the church’s community center, a large open room with folding chairs set up in a
circle for us by the first arrivals, I’m glad to see some new faces. It suggests that community outreach
is working.
I get a cup of coffee from the large urn the church provides and take my seat as everyone gets
settled.
“Good morning,” I greet everyone. “Welcome to our grief counseling group. Since we have some
new faces here this morning, why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? I’ll start. I’m Jolene.
I’m Jolene Bell. You can call me Jo.” I tell them a little bit about myself—that I’m an LPC and what
that means.
I reassure them that anything they say in the group is confidential and remind them that while it is
absolutely okay for them to talk to other people about their experiences in the group, it’s better that
they not share other members’ experiences.
It turns out there are three new people in the group—Tiffany, a twenty-something woman who
recently lost the grandmother who raised her, Andrew, an elderly man whose wife of fifty years
recently passed away from breast cancer, and Chip.
Chip’s a little different from my usual client. Or even my usual group participant.
He has dark hair shot through with gray—I place him in his mid-40s to early 50s, but only after he
glances up, and I see his face, unlined except for the grief etched into his face—the kinds of lines I’ve
come to recognize as largely temporary.
He sits with his knees slightly apart, his elbows on them, his hands clasped lightly as he leans
forward.
He’s wearing jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a leather jacket with patches and other decorations.
Definitely not the sort of man who usually seeks out counseling.
He affirms this when he introduces himself. “I’m Chip. My friends call me Zeus,” he adds as an
afterthought, waving at his leather jacket as if the gesture explains something significant. I guess it
does since several of the people in the circle nod. He pauses for a long moment as if searching for the
right words. “I’m here because my daughter Amira suggested it. My wife Razi died recently in a car
accident.”
“How recently?” I ask gently, trying to draw him out. The other two new members offered this
information easily, but I get the sense Chip is going to be more reticent.
He frowns as if calculating in his mind, then says, “Three months.” He shakes his head, dropping
his face to stare at his hands. “And I can’t seem to get over it.”
 “You know, three months isn’t very long. Grief can take a long time to resolve itself.”
Murmurs of agreement come from the group, some of whom have been in counseling for months or
years.
Chip gives an openhanded shrug, instinctively brushing off the comment.
I recognize the move. This man, like so many of us, believes he should be able to move on from a
profound loss quickly and easily.
He’s wrong. None of us can do that. Grief always finds an outlet—if not through acknowledgment,
then by more self-destructive means.
I say as much, keeping my tone gentle.
But for the first time in a while, I’m prompted to share my own story.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs but keeping my hands loose in my lap, so my body
language is open and inviting. “I don’t do this at every meeting, but since we have several new people
here, I want to share a little bit about how I ended up running this group.
“Almost seven years ago, my husband and daughter were killed in a car crash. They were hit by a
drunk driver when they were coming home from my daughter’s ballet practice in Atlanta, where we
lived at the time.” I make eye contact with Chip, acknowledging the similarities in our stories.
“I spent the first year barely getting out of bed, unable to understand how or even why I could go
on with them gone. Finally, I got to the point where I knew I either had to figure out a way to get past
my grief or just go ahead and commit suicide.”
Several people in the circle nod—I know from their conversations in the group at other points that
they had been in similar situations.
“That’s when a friend of mine suggested I join a grief group much like this one. That group saved
my life. After a while in the group, I switched over to private sessions to really finish my personal
work. It took another year for me to really feel whole again, but when I started thinking about what I
wanted to do with the rest of my life, I realized that I wanted to help people the same way the
counselor in my grief group helped me. But I also realized that I needed a change of scenery. So, I
began looking into ways to do that. I ended up at Jack State, where I completed my until-then-
unfinished undergraduate degree, then went on to complete a master’s in counseling. In order to get
the hours I needed for my licensing, I started a grief group much like this one in Jacksonville. Then,
when I was ready to begin my private practice, I moved to Birmingham. I continue to run this group
on a volunteer basis because it’s important to me.
“So, all that to say that although I might not be able to understand the particulars of each of your
situations, I can empathize with the emotional issues that come with grief because I’ve been there.”
I glance around the group again, waiting to see if anyone wants to jump in and open the
conversation.
It isn’t unusual after I share my story for people to be unwilling to immediately begin talking, so
after a few seconds, I lean forward. “Charlene, you said last week that you were about to begin
sorting through your mother’s belongings. How did that go?”
“It was okay,” Charlene says. “Harder than I expected in some ways, easier in others.”
“In what ways was it harder?”
“I opened her makeup drawer in the bathroom, and suddenly the whole room smelled like her. It
took me back to my childhood, and I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor crying my eyes out.”
I nod sympathetically. “That’s not uncommon at all. It’s natural to miss someone when we’re
going through their things—and smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers humans have.”
I glance away from Chantel and realize that Chip has crossed his arms over his chest and is
leaning back with his head tilted to one side. I’m not sure if that’s simply his listening pose or if he is
feeling somehow skeptical of the process, but I decide to do something else that I only occasionally
do—share my own more recent experience with grief.
So, I tell them the story about the mover breaking the glass on all my framed pictures of Allan and
Danielle.
By the time I’m done talking, he’s leaning forward again, his arms uncrossed. If he’d been feeling
skeptical, my story had brought him out of it.
And if he’d simply been listening? Well, then, hearing that even those of us trained in helping
people with their issues still face our own emotional barriers sometimes won’t hurt.
The rest of the hour goes by quickly. I make a quick mental note of the people who haven’t spoken
during the session, promising myself that I will draw them out next week.
I thank everyone for coming and end the group session for today.
As usual, some people bolt for the door as soon as the hour is up, but a few hang around, getting
cups of coffee to go, and chatting.
“Hey, about those broken picture frames of yours,” a voice comes from behind me. I turn away
from the coffee urn where I’m refilling my cup. It’s Chip—or Zeus.
I definitely need to ask him about that nickname sometime.
“Yes?” I ask.
“If the rest of the frames are salvageable, I know a guy who could cut new glass for you.”
I blink, surprised. “Yeah?”
Chip nods. “His name’s Marty. He works out of a shop in Anniston. If you tell him Zeus sent you,
he’ll give you a good deal. Shouldn’t cost you any more than new frames.” He takes a couple of my
business cards from the stack I keep out on the table, reaching around me as he does so.
I get hit with the scent of him, a mix of some kind of spicy soap and leather. For a second, it
makes me dizzy, and it takes me a moment to recognize the feeling.
Good God, Jo, I admonished myself. It is unprofessional to be attracted to your clients.
Chip pulls a pen out of some inner pocket of his jacket and scribbles a name and address on the
back of one of the cards. He hands it to me, then tucks the other one into the pocket with the pen.
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”
I gather up my purse and begin walking toward the exit, Chip falling into step beside me. “How
do you feel about the session today?” I ask him. It’s not an unusual question, but I find I’m suddenly
deeply interested in his response. I have to remind myself again that this man is off-limits, no matter
how attractive he might be.
He nods. “Not bad.”
I grin at him, realizing that it’s likely that’s his version of high praise. “Good. I hope to see you
again next week.”
He nods, and I get into my SUV.
As I pull out of the driveway, I find myself staring in the rearview mirror, watching as Chip—
Zeus, whatever his name is—gets on a motorcycle and heads out in the opposite direction.
I have to force myself to look away.
 FOUR

Zeus
I had my first meeting with the grief counseling group this afternoon at the church a few miles
away. I was reluctant to go to such a place, but once I got there and started listening to the group
leader’s own experiences, I started giving it a chance. When Amira suggested something like this to
me, I automatically thought it would be some pompous ass sitting up front telling us that feeling the
way we do was normal. Only, it turned out to be much more than that.
One of the other group members spoke about how going through her mother’s makeup drawer was
difficult for her. Jolene told us that something as simple as getting the scent of the person we loved
was enough to trigger us. I never realized anything like that until I attended my session earlier today,
and I’m glad I went. I doubt I’ll let Amira know. I’m glad I went to this session, but for now, that’s
okay. Amira just cares about me getting some sort of ‘help’ to process my grief, and I am, so I know
she’ll be elated I actually went to the damn thing.
I’m sitting out back on the concrete patio we have behind the clubhouse in one of our old wooden
chairs. They’ve been here for ages, but they’ve got some solid bones, so I haven’t replaced them as of
yet. These things have got to be eight or nine years old, but I like to live my life by the old saying, ‘if
it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. It’s never let me down thus far.
I’ve been texting back and forth with my brother, Ice, who’s part of the Satan’s Raiders MC out in
Los Angeles. He used to be the president of the club, but he retired and his son, Breaker, took over as
the president of the club. Ice has had a lot of problems with drugs and alcohol, but he’s done a damn
good job of getting sober and doing better for himself. I don’t think my problems are nearly as bad as
my brother’s have been, but I always wonder in the back of my mind if I’m as capable of going down
that path as he has. The bottom line is that I know I am, and Amira constantly checking in on me
shows me that my reality isn’t so different from where my brother’s been. I don’t think I’m that far
gone, though, but I do appreciate my daughter’s concern.
Ice said he was going to call me, but so far, he hasn’t done it yet. Typically, we just talk through
texting, but I think it must be pretty damn important if he wants to speak with me over the phone. Sure
enough, my phone rings, and the caller ID pops up with my brother’s name.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve actually called me,” I tell my older brother as I pick up the
phone.
He chuckles lowly on the other end. “Yeah, well, I’m not the talkin’ type, I guess. Texting is much
easier. There’s something I think you need to know about, given what happened with Callista.”
Immediately, my stomach tightens. Ice knows something important, and I’ll put my money on the
fact it has something to do with Thorn. “The Vile Serpents MC has been seen riding around Los
Angeles. Breaker’s put a couple of the brothers on assignments watching them, and I was on one of
the first teams. I saw him here, brother. I saw Thorn.”
“Have any of you seen them in your neck of the woods before?” I’m sure they’ve traveled from
time to time, but given what happened with my daughter, they’ve been running for the hills. Fucking
cowards.
“No. The last time I saw their club was at Sturgis in the nineties,” Ice answers honestly, and I
know deep in my gut that Thorn’s riding around to not only get away from my club but to cause more
chaos too. He’s sadistic, and he’s not the type of fucker who gives up easily.
I don’t have any solid evidence, but in the back of my mind, I keep wondering if Thorn or his club
have anything to do with my estranged wife’s death. He wanted Calli, and he was determined to have
her until we interjected. I wonder if he’s insane enough to go after Calli’s mother since he couldn’t
have her.
“Can you keep me updated about anything you find out? I don’t like that he’s in Los Angeles, and I
have a bad feeling about him being out there. I’m sure he knows you’re my brother.” I don’t want to
freak Ice out, but if Thorn had something to do with Razi’s death, it would mean he’s targeting people
close to me.
Ice snickers on the other end. “Let him try and do something to me. The club can handle it, brother,
and we’ll wipe him off the face of the Earth like he never existed in the first place. As far as keeping
you updated, you know I will. It’s why I wanted to call in the first place. This shit seemed sensitive.”
“When have you ever been the one to handle a situation with delicacy?” I laugh as I ask my
brother, and he tells me to fuck off, then we quickly say our goodbyes.
I have a hot coffee in hand and take a sip of the liquid. Caffeine is the only thing that gets me
through most days, and since we’re having a party here at the club tonight, I need it. In my younger
days, I didn’t use to need coffee to keep me up, but now that I’m forty-nine, I can’t party like I used to.
Hell, sometimes I barely have the desire to stay up for the damn thing.
I slowly sip on my coffee until there’s nothing left in my cup, and I finally get up and head inside
the clubhouse. The party won’t start for a couple more hours at least, but I spot Pan’s ol’ lady, Trix,
here with their baby Atlas. I’ve always thought Pan and Trix make an odd coupling. He’s been quite
the manwhore in the past, and if I had to compare her to anyone, I’d say she’s really similar to
Wednesday Addams. Not that it’s a bad thing, she’s just typically wearing dark clothes with really
dark makeup. She’s a lovely lady, but on the surface, I never would’ve thought I would pick a woman
like that. She also happens to be one of Calli’s best friends, so I keep my thoughts to myself. As long
as they’re both happy, it’s all that matters.
Trix is holding Atlas in her arms as she sits next to Pan. The little boy is wrapping his hand
around his mother’s finger. It seems so simple, but the way Pan stares at Trix and his little boy
reminds me of many years ago. I used to look at Razi like that when we had Calli. I only bring up
Calli because there was so much shit going on with the club when she had Amira. I wasn’t there as
much as I should’ve been, and that’s one of the many regrets in my pile of them.
I’m walking in the narrow hallway, intending to go into the kitchen and put my mug in the
dishwasher when Risk comes up. She’s wearing a crop top, which I don’t think she should be at her
age. She’s in her early forties, sure, so I know women in her age bracket still wear young shit. But
Risk looks like she’s washed up on shore a few too many times. She smokes cigarettes like a train and
drinks from dusk ‘til dawn. Honestly, she puts my drinking to shame.
Risk drags her tongue against her cherry-red painted lips. “You need me to keep you company
tonight, big boy?”
I haven’t touched Risk in ages, and I know deep down she has to realize I don’t want a damn thing
to do with her. The only reason I’ve even let her stay here is because she’s Dion’s mother. Risk has
done far too many things over the years to piss me off and fuck with the peace within the club. I
should’ve kicked her ass to the curb, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it because of Dion.
“No one will be keepin’ me company, Risk.” I make sure to keep my tone firm, but knowing Risk,
she’ll let it fly straight over her head. If it doesn’t fit what she’s trying to achieve, she’ll do whatever
she can until she gets what she wants.
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Zeus. I miss you. Don’t you miss me too?”
“Neither was my reply. I’m not in the mood, so go find someone else’s dick to suck and fuck off,”
I grit. It’s hard to be nice to the woman when she won’t listen to whatever I have to say. It’s
infuriating, really.
“You can’t be serious,” Risk snaps at me, inflecting her voice at the same time. “Is there someone
else? You’ve never stayed away from me for this long. I was giving you some time, given Razi died
and all, but you should really get over it.”
Just like that—everything changes.
Fury swarms over me, and I pull my gun out from my holster, pressing the end of it right against
her forehead. “The love of my life died, and you have no right to tell me that I need to get over it.
Absolutely no fuckin’ right. Who are you to tell me that shit, huh? Oh wait, you’re nobody. You’re just
some washed-up whore that I let live here, so you aren’t homeless. Razi was the love of my life,
Risk. It was never you. All you ever were was a bitch to suck my dick when I was horny, now get the
fuck out of my sight before I actually pull the trigger.”
Risk wastes no time shuffling down the hallway. She opens the door to the clubwhores’ bedroom
area and slams it shut behind her. I slide my gun back into my holster and finally get into the kitchen.
While I was placing the mug in the dishwasher, I wondered if I was too harsh on her, but I wasn’t. I
should’ve snapped at her a long time ago, but I’ve been biting my tongue. I think it’s high time I stop
biting my tongue with her. The only way she’s going to learn is if I’m brutal with my words. What she
won’t understand is that the brutality of my words is only more affirmation of how I’ve been feeling
for a while.
As I leave the kitchen, I head for the main area, and Amira walks in all smiles. I wonder if she’s
going to head around and say hello to everyone, but my youngest daughter b-lines it straight for me.
“Dad, how was group?”
Well, I guess she’s cutting straight to the point. “We can talk about it in my office.” I don’t want
everyone hearing that I’m going to some counseling group. I doubt they’d think that I’m a softie or a
pussy ass bitch, but I don’t want to take any chances.
Amira and I head down the hall, and I unlock the door. Once the two of us are inside, I head
behind my desk and take a seat. “It went good.”
“It went good.” Amira raises both of her brows. “That’s all you’re going to tell me about it?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about what people say. It’s a confidentiality thing,” I tell her, vaguely
remembering Jolene said something along those lines.
“Dad, seriously? I advocated for you to go for weeks, and all you’re going to tell me is that it was
good. Can’t you give me something more than that?” I understand what Amira’s asking from me, but I
don’t think it’s really any of her business. The fact that I went in the first place should be a win for
her.
“The counselor was nice. She lost her loved ones in a car accident too, so I guess I understood the
pain she has.” I tell her a little bit, but not a lot.
“I heard about Jolene’s story. It’s why I recommended you go to that group specifically because I
thought it would be a good match for you.” Amira’s admission surprises me, but it shouldn’t. She has
so much of her mother’s intentions behind everything she does. I’m just only seeing it now.
There’s a knock on my office door, causing both of us to turn our heads in that direction. “Yeah?” I
call out.
“Prez, you got a package,” Kratos calls back.
“All right,” I holler back at him, “Amira, would you mind getting it from Kratos?”
“Not at all.” Amira goes to the door and opens it, grabs the package from Kratos, and closes the
door, then hands me the package.
The package is in my legal name, which strikes me as odd. I have a P.O. Box in town where I get
my electric bills and all of that, but I haven’t gotten anything in my legal name delivered to the club in
a while. It’s probably been years.
I grab my switchblade from the pocket of my jeans and flip it open, sliding the knife against the
tape. Once I have the package open, there’s only red tissue paper in there. I grab all of the tissue
paper and spread it open until a gold bangle lies in my hand.
I narrow my eyes at it, reflecting it in the light. On the inside of the bracelet are the letters C, C,
and A.
“Dad . . . that’s Mom’s bracelet.”
Immediately, I lift my eyes until I’m staring into my daughter’s. “What do you mean?”
“It’s Mom’s bracelet. It’s the one I couldn’t find after her accident. The one the hospital said they
never had, and the one we looked for at the scene of the accident. Why or . . . how are you getting it in
the mail?”
I want to be able to tell Amira something. Anything, really . . . but how can I tell her something
when I don’t have an answer myself?
If anything, this is proof enough that Razi’s accident wasn’t an accident. It was premeditated, and
someone ripped my daughter’s mother from our lives.
 FIVE

Jolene
For the third time in the last hour, I check the card in my hand, staring down at Chip’s bold,
decisive handwriting.
Somehow, I know his writing style is indicative of who he is.
It’s been two weeks since Chip gave me the information, and I’ve gone back and forth between
getting new glass to help preserve my memories of my husband and child and simply getting new
frames and starting all over.
Finally, I realized that not every move I made had to be symbolic. I like the frames the pictures
are in, so if I can keep them, I will.
I had also considered tracking down the number to his friend’s shop and calling but finally
decided if Chip gave me the address rather than a phone number, there was probably a good reason
for it. So now I’m in my car on the way to Anniston, Alabama, about an hour away, to ask about
getting new glass for my frames.
Following the directions on my phone, I turn down a winding road leading, as far as I can tell, to
nowhere.
I’m still several miles away from my destination when my car begins to wobble, making a
distinctive thumping noise against the asphalt.
“Dammit,” I curse aloud. I don’t have time for this.
I pull my SUV over to the side of the road and get out, walking around to the passenger’s side.
Sure enough, the tire’s flat.
This is what I get for waiting too long to buy new tires.
God. I hope I can remember what Allan taught me about changing a flat tire all those years ago.
I pop the trunk, muttering to myself as I try to remember all the steps involved.
It might be simpler to call a tow truck, but it would certainly cost more.
“Jack up the car. Take off the lug nuts. Remove the old tire, put on the spare, and replace and
tighten the lug nuts.”
I’m sure I’m forgetting something.
I lift open the cover in the back end of my SUV and stare down at the donut tire in the trunk. But
when I try to lift it out, it’s bolted down.
“Well, there’s one thing you forgot,” I mutter.
 With a sigh, I lift out the tire iron. I’m about to begin working the spare loose when a giant black
pickup truck pulls up behind me and slows to a stop. I can’t tell what kind of truck it is—all the
identifying emblems have been removed, and it’s painted a midnight black all over, from rims to trim.
Even the windows are tinted so darkly that all I can make out of the person inside is a vague shadow.
I turn to face the truck fully, hefting the tire iron in my hand a couple of times. I could use it as a
weapon if I had to, I decide.
The driver’s side door opens, and a pair of motorcycle boots drop to the ground, followed by the
man’s legs clad in blue jeans.
My fist tightens around the metal in my hand, and I inhale deeply, ready to do whatever might be
necessary to protect myself.
But when the man steps out from behind the door and shuts it behind him, I exhale in relief.
It’s Chip.
“Hey there,” he calls out. “You okay?”
I gesture with a tire iron as if I haven’t just been contemplating violence. “Flat tire,” I say
ruefully.
“Want some help?”
For a split second, it crosses my mind to refuse. But that would be ridiculous. Somehow, I’m
guessing that Chip has more experience changing flats than I do.
Hell, he probably has more experience dealing with anything at all having to do with cars.
“I would really appreciate that, actually.” This time, the relief is evident in my voice.
“Let me see what you’ve got.” Chip comes over and surveys the tools in my trunk, then shakes his
head. “I’ve got better gear in my truck. Hang on.”
He leaves and returns moments later with a tire iron and a jack, both of which look to be much
sturdier than mine. Within moments, he’s got the car jacked up, the original tire off, and is putting on
the spare.
That’s when I notice the emblem on the back of his jacket. I take a moment to study it. At the top
are three snarling dogs’ heads—maybe pit bulls?—and at the bottom is what looks like a motorcycle
handlebar topped with a hissing snake, some kind of viper, I think. The words Sons of Gods run
through the center in a gothic-looking font.
Sons of Gods.
And Chip’s nickname is Zeus.
That would make the dogs at the top the three-headed dog from Greek myth, right?
I wrack my brain, trying to recollect what I knew.
Cerberus. If I remember my world literature class from my sophomore year in college correctly,
that was the three-headed dog’s name.
As he spins the lug nuts onto the replacement tire, he glances up at me, squinting a little bit in the
sunlight. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I was headed to talk to your friend about cutting new glass for me.”
He nods. “I was wondering if that was it. I was headed over that way myself. Want to ride over
with me? It’ll save you some wear on that donut of yours. Then I can follow you back to whatever
shop you want to use.” He cuts his eyes toward me, then glances away. “Just to make sure you’re
okay,” he clarifies.
Part of me likes the idea of having him watch my back.
Of course, the rest of me knows that’s dangerous, given how attracted I am to the man.
But his logic is undeniable. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
 “Sure,” I say.
I grab my purse and phone out of the front seat as Chip finishes tightening the lug nuts, and then I
follow him to his huge truck.
I have to boost myself up on the running board and use the handle above the seat to swing myself
in. As soon as my ass hits the seat, I’m enveloped by his scent. It surrounds me in spice and leather,
and a shiver runs down my back and arms, settling in my core, sending heat throbbing through my
entire body.
I’m acutely, almost painfully aware of Chip as he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the truck.
As he pulls out from behind my car and continues toward our shared destination, I wrack my brain for
something to say—anything to break the silence that suddenly feels far too comfortable. “We missed
you at last week’s group session,” I finally say, my tone too bright to sound natural.
My stomach clenches, but Chip answers as if there’s nothing odd about my voice. “Sorry about
that. Something came up, and I was unable to make it.”
“No problem,” I say, and turn to stare out the window at the trees as they roll by us. This time, I
decide to allow myself to simply enjoy the companionable silence until we get to his friend’s shop.
At Anniston Glassworks, we bypass a front desk, Chip leading me directly to the workshop in the
back. As soon as the door opens, several men glance up from their work, and one of them raises his
hand. “Zeus,” he calls out. “Good to see you, man.”
I trail along behind Chip, once again wondering about that name. “Marty Jamison, this is Jo Bell,”
he introduces us, and Marty holds out a hand to shake mine. The glass worker is younger than Chip by
a good ten or fifteen years—closer to my own thirty-nine than his friend’s.
“Nice to meet you,” Marty says, then turns to Chip. “What can I help you with today?”
“A couple of things,” Chip replies. “First of all, Jo here needs new glass for some important
picture frames of hers. I was hoping you might have some scraps that you could cut to size, maybe
give her a little bit of a deal on them?”
“Absolutely. Sure thing.” Marty turned back to me. “What’re you looking for?”
I swipe open my phone, glad that I had not only written down the dimensions but also taken
pictures of the frames so Marty could see what I needed.
We talk about it for several minutes, and then Marty disappears into another part of the shop,
returning moments later with several sheets of glass in varying sizes.
“These are all extras that we have lying around in the back. I’d be happy to do the work for you.”
Then he quotes me a price that’s so low my mouth drops open. I glance at Chip, who flashes a grin at
me.
“If you can really do the work for that amount, it would be wonderful,” I say, trying hard not to
stammer in my gratefulness.
“No problem.” Marty’s smile is wide and genuine. He turns back to Chip. “You said there were a
couple of things?”
He and Chip begin discussing some design—I miss any reference to what it’s for, though, so I
stand back, happy to be shuttled off to the sidelines while they work out a much more expensive
agreement. To be honest, knowing that Chip is paying Marty for serious work makes me feel better
about the amazing deal he’s arranged for me.
“Sounds good,” Marty finishes before turning back to me. “Ms. Bell, I’ll have yours ready in
about a week. If you leave me your number, I can call to let you know when it’s ready.”
I fish a business card from my wallet, and Marty takes it and tucks it into his pocket. I note the
interested glance he flashes in Chip’s direction when he reads my title. He doesn’t say anything,
though, and moments later, Chip and I are walking back to Chip’s oversized pickup truck.
“Marty seems like a nice guy,” I observe as we pull back onto the road, headed toward my car.
“Yeah. He’s done some work for members of my club before.” Chip’s answer doesn’t give much
away, but I don’t get the sense he’s being evasive—just that Marty is one of many social connections
he has.
But also . . . “Club?” I ask.
“Motorcycle club.”
That explains both the words on the back of his jacket and the gesture he made toward the jacket
during the group session.
I remind myself to check out the back to see if I can figure out more about what club he’s in.
“Speaking of,” he continues, his eyes darting toward me and then back to the road in a way I can’t
immediately decipher. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?”
“Well, I just bought a new house and moved into it, so I imagine I’ll be handing out candy to trick-
or-treaters.” To be honest, I haven’t considered it yet—but that seems like a safe-enough answer.
“Gotta love the kids in their costumes,” he replies with a grin.
“Always.” I remember the last time I took Danielle trick-or-treating, but I shake off the memory.
“My club is having a party. Maybe you could join us. After you run out of candy, of course.” He
smiles, and the expression hits me like a baseball bat to the stomach, sending all the air whooshing
out of my lungs.
Holy hell, he’s attractive.
I absolutely cannot go to the party. After all, he’s a member of the grief group. That makes him a
client, which makes it unethical for me to do any socializing with him—and not least of all because I
desperately want to socialize with him.
You have to say no, Jolene.
Still, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Let me think about it?”
“Sure.” He pulls the truck over behind my SUV, then draws my other business card and a pen out
of his jacket pocket and writes down an address. “Feel free to just show up.”
He hands it to me, and I reach over to open the door and exit the truck. “Thanks for the ride,” I
say. “And for the recommendation to go to Marty. I’m looking forward to being able to keep the same
frames.”
“No problem.” He gives me an inscrutable look before continuing. “Also, I figure you should
know—I’ve decided to switch over to a private counselor. I just don’t think the whole group thing is
for me.”
“Oh?” I try not to let my internal panic leak through to my voice. “Need some recs?”
“No. I think I may have found someone I can work with. I have an appointment already. But
thanks.”
And there’s that look again.
Chip leans over toward the open passenger door just before I close it. “Oh, in case you do decide
to come? It’s a costume party.” He flashes that grin that transforms his whole face, and I can’t help but
smile back.
“Got it,” I reply and shut the door. I barely notice my surroundings as I clamber down from his
truck and get into my own car.
Once again, I find myself staring at him in the rearview mirror.
Chip has found a different counselor.
That means he’s not a client.
Oh, hell.
This changes everything.
 SIX

Zeus
“So, Amira said you actually went to a group therapy session. I don’t want to have to ask this, but
are you lying? I mean, you said you didn’t want to go to any of those, and I quote, ‘bullshit
therapies’.” Calli and I are having dinner together, which is a nice change. We’re not just having
dinner together, but she actually invited me out to this steakhouse outside of Birmingham. It’s a newer
place, but I haven’t had the opportunity to check it out until tonight.
“I didn’t lie.” I cut my medium-rare steak and pick up a piece of the meat with my fork. As I’m
putting it in my mouth Calli’s leaning back against the booth with her arms crossed.
“Dad, seriously? You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m not fuckin’ lyin’ to you. Damn, I actually went to the damn place so your sister would get off
my ass. But it looks like you don’t have a problem jumpin’ on me for apparently lyin’ about this shit. I
went to the damn group. Your sister said she even knew the counselor had lost her family in a tragic
car accident, and I told Amira about that, so how can I be lyin’ when I know that? Hmm?” I cock a
brow at Calli while I chew on my perfectly cooked steak. Fuck, it’s good. I haven’t had a steak like
this in a while. Then again, the last time I cooked steak was at one of our club get-togethers over the
summer.
“Fair enough. I’ll believe you, but it’s only because Amira confirmed the information you’re
telling me. We both thought you were going to skip out on it, honestly. She’s elated you went, and I’m
really glad you did too. You needed to go, Dad . . . and I hope you keep going.”
“I’m not makin’ any promises. I told your sister I’d go to a few sessions, so that’s what I planned
on doing.”
“Planned?” Calli shoots me an accusatory glare.
“Yeah.” I shrug my shoulders. “I planned on going to a few of the group ones, but I honestly don’t
know if that’s the right choice for me. Sure, it was good to see that other people can relate to the pain
I feel, but I don’t want to waste time hearing about other people’s problems when I could get to the
root of mine.” I cut my steak into a few more pieces and bite down on another one while Calli speaks.
“I don’t know what to say, really. I never thought you’d give it one opportunity, and now you’re
telling me you want to go do something one-on-one. I’m . . . shocked.”
“Yeah, well, I think people can change their minds. I never thought I’d enjoy the therapy thing, and
I don’t enjoy it . . . but I think it can help me get down to the bottom of my shit. You know?”
 “Yeah, but I think you’re spewing a bunch of bullshit at me. If I’m being honest, I think there’s
some sort of ulterior motive behind this.” Calli takes a sip of her Pepsi and stares right at me. She
doesn’t take her eyes off me in the slightest, and I know my girls learned this look from their mother.
I could tell her right here that I’m romantically interested in the group counselor, and it would be
an extreme conflict of interest, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. Her mother had just died, and
sure we hadn’t been romantic in a long time, but I loved their mother in a way I could never express.
Jolene is beautiful in that natural sort of way, though deep down, I think my initial attraction to Jolene
is because we share the same pain. The two of us know what it’s like to lose the person we love out
of nowhere. Only she lost a daughter too, and I can’t imagine that pain. Sure, I lost my daughters . . .
but it was because I was protecting them. I knew they were living and breathing a few states away. I
still had the option to call them if I wanted or drive up and check in on them. Jolene’s never had that
opportunity.
“Can’t I just try something and decide it doesn’t work for me?”
“Yeah, you can . . . but you deciding to go to solo therapy is blowing my mind. I think this is a
load of crap, Dad, and I know you better than to think anything else. But I’ll forego this sudden
changing of your mind. I, however, want to know what’s going on with the package you got at the club
the other day. Has anything else happened?”
I told Calli about the package the day it arrived. I knew if I didn’t say something to Calli that her
sister would, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was keeping something from her. I’m headed to the
post office after we finish up with our early dinner. “Nothing yet, but I’m trying to see if I can find out
who sent the package. There’s a tracking number on it. With any luck, it’ll lead us somewhere.”
Calli nods her head once. “Okay. I . . . Connor’s told me not to get my head too deep into this, but
I really think this has something to do with Thorn. I just have a really bad feeling, Dad.”
I want to ease her worries, but out of all my enemies, Thorn and the Vile Serpents MC are high on
my list. I don’t know if I truly think anyone else is capable of doing this. Sure, other people have
motives against my club and me, but most people have a code. Most clubs don’t go against the other’s
families. It’s an unwritten rule, but it’s something the Vile Serpents MC doesn’t give a fuck about.
“I promise I’m going to get to the bottom of this, sweetheart. Don’t worry about anything. I’m
handling it.” I grab onto Calli’s hand, and she offers me a soft smile, but I know it doesn’t do much to
ease her worries. Calli’s a lot like me in this way. She wants to find a solution to the problem or an
answer to the question as soon as possible.
Calli and I finish eating, and I pay for the two of us. She gave me a hard time about it, but if I want
to spoil her or her sister from time to time, then I’m damn well going to do it. After we both say our
goodbyes, I swing by my local United States Post Office, and the woman in the front scans my
package.
She and I both see how the return address has a marker over it, so she’s more than happy to help
me figure out who sent me a ‘lovely gift’, as I told her. She ends up giving me an address and writes it
down on a post-it note for me.
I leave the post office and, on the way, send a group text to the club saying to meet me where we
have church. Everyone except the prospects will be there, and once I pull my truck up to the club, I
head straight in.
The moment I walk through the door where we hold church, everyone’s eyes are on me. I pull out
the post-it note and take a seat. “You all know I had a nasty feeling like someone had a hand in Razi’s
death, and the package I received the other day proves it. She was wearing it when she was in the car,
so someone must’ve taken it off her before officers got to the scene. Now, I need a couple of
volunteers to go over to the location. From what I could figure out on the drive over here, it’s a little
over two hours away.”
“I’ll go.” Dion instantly volunteers and looks around at the group of his brothers.
“You know I’ll head out and see what’s up.” Ares volunteers as well. He and Calli have an
interesting bond, so I’m sure he wants to help find answers for her.
“Fuck it, I’ll head out with ‘em,” Kratos says.
I nod, a silent appreciation to the three of them. I pick the post-it note up and hand it to Kratos. “I
want an update as soon as you get there. I don’t care what I’m doin’, I’ll answer the phone. You
understand?”
“Yes, Prez. I got you. We’ll head out right now if you want,” Kratos offers, and I nod in
agreement.
Kratos, Dion, and Ares all head out while Eros looks right at me. He hates this for Calli, and I
hate it too. I hate it more than he could ever possibly know.
“Who are you thinkin’ is behind this? Thorn?” Eros questions.
The rest of the brothers grumble lowly, and we’d be fools to think it was anyone else, but we have
to keep our minds open. “I think it could be. I also think it could be anyone else. I can’t rule anyone
out right now. Not until we have some solid answers, and as much as the rest of you think we know
who’s behind it, we can’t jump to conclusions. We have to keep our wits about us, especially now.”
I’m the one who’s barely keeping my shit together. I’m so fucking furious that it isn’t even funny. All I
want to do is get my hands on the son of a bitch who’s responsible and make him suffer.
I hate the pain inside me.
I loathe the fact my girls had to go through it too.
But more than that, I can’t understand why Razi’s life was cut so short. She was a good woman,
and she didn’t deserve this fucking shit.
I end the meeting and go out back to shoot for a while. I eventually run out of bullets and head
back into the clubhouse. Hades tries to keep me occupied until my phone rings, but the fact of the
matter is I can’t keep my mind off this shit. Me and Hades butt heads quite a bit, but it’s only because
we’re two opinionated bastards. It’s what makes him a great VP. He’s not the type to ever shy away
from what he’s thinking, and he certainly won’t tell you something just to make you happy.
After a while, my phone rings, and I answer it immediately. “Hello,” I say into the receiver.
“Hey, Dad. This address. You sure it’s right?”
There’s a problem. “Yeah. I got it straight from the postal worker. It’s what the tracking number
went back to.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry to tell you this, but it’s an abandoned lot.”
Fuck, this address was a waste of time, and I bet it was a planted one at that. It’s a dead end, and
I’m back at square one.
 SEVEN

Jolene
All the way home, I find myself fretting about the ethics of going to a party hosted by one of my
former clients.
Assuming he really is a client. I don’t know, to be honest.
Luckily, I still have several days to decide whether I’m going to go. After all, I didn’t make any
promises to Chip, I remind myself.
As attractive as he is, I don’t want to lose my license over him.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m laughing and shaking my head at myself.
There was a time not that long ago when I wouldn’t have even considered going. After Allan and
Danielle died, I fully believed that I would never get over their deaths enough to date again—even
after I decided to move on with my life, to find a way to make my existence meaningful again. The
very last thing I had ever contemplated was romance.
I go inside, glad to have Bailey there to greet me. “No time for a walk today,” I tell her. “But you
can go outside to play.” I open the French doors, and she bounds outside, dashing from one end of the
yard to the other, snuffling in the grass as she searches for small animals to hunt.
I’ve seen squirrels in the branches of the trees taunting her.
I hope they’re careful not to get close enough to get caught.
Heading back inside, I move to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and scanning it for something
worth cooking for dinner.
It’s still every bit as bare as it was the last time I looked.
The thought of going back out to track down something for dinner—yet another lonely meal in
front of my television set—doesn’t really appeal to me.
I know it’s not healthy, but I do have cereal. And a half gallon of milk that hasn’t gone bad yet too.
“Self-care, Jolene,” I remind myself. “It’s as important as caring for other people.”
I’ve almost convinced myself to go out to the grocery store when my phone rings.
I glance down to see that it’s Pamela—another counselor who shares the office space I’ve rented
for the last several months and the woman who has quickly become my best friend in Birmingham.
Okay. My only friend, really.
“Hey, Jo,” she greets me. “You doing anything tonight?”
“No,” I admit. “I was just staring into my refrigerator to see if I had anything fit for human
consumption for dinner.”
Pamela laughs a deep throaty sound. “Then you’re in luck. I’m going out for dinner tonight with
several of my friends. We’d love it if you joined us.”
My immediate instinct, born out of years of hiding away from the world, is to say no. By I’m
determined to make a real life for myself here, so I agree.
“Great,” Pamela says. “I’ll come by in about an hour and pick you up.”
I laugh, knowing that she’s well aware of both my tendency to want to avoid social interactions
and my vow to overcome that tendency.
“I’ll be ready,” I assure her.
My friend arrives an hour later on the dot, and I climb into her luxurious sedan.
Pamela’s been working in Birmingham for her entire career, having started a solid decade before
I did, and she has a steady clientele. She’s also become my primary go-to for advice.
“I have a professional question,” I tell her.
“Shoot,” she says.
In a few broad strokes, I outline the situation with Chip.
“So, he came in once for a group meeting, right?”
“Right.”
“And he doesn’t plan to come back?”
“That’s what he says.”
Pamela bites her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing as she considers all the implications. “What did
you discuss during the session?”
“I told the group about my background and credentials and explained how I ended up as a
counselor—this guy’s wife died in a car wreck too.”
She nods. “Okay. What did you cover about confidentiality?”
“I talked about the differences between private sessions and group sessions when it comes to
confidentiality—that there are much stricter rules for private interactions with a counselor.”
“And after one group session, he decided that he was more interested in private counseling, but
from a different counselor entirely, right?”
“Yep.”
“Do you usually have your group members fill out information forms?”
“Generally, the second time they come to the group.”
“And he invited you to the party hosted by . . .”
“By his motorcycle club.”
“Not a date, not some private event, but a party. Just a party.”
“Just a party,” I confirm.
She tilts her head. “And there’s no actual paperwork confirming his participation, right?” I nod,
and she grins at me. “Then that was not a counseling session. It was a consultation. Besides, you run
the group on a volunteer basis. So although you are technically a counselor in that situation, he’s not a
paying client. I think you are safe to accept the invitation.”
I laugh aloud. “That’s playing a little fast and loose with the rules, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. It is strictly appropriate, according to the rules.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promise her as we pull into the parking lot.
The restaurant Pamela and her friends have chosen is a local favorite, housed in a converted barn
painted red, with the former stalls set up to house private booths.
Halfway through an appetizer course of fried green tomatoes, Pamela leans in to glance around at
the other three women sitting with us. “Okay, y’all,” she announces. “Jolene has a dilemma.”
“Pam!” I admonish her, but she keeps talking, waving a hand at me to hush.
“She’s been invited to a Halloween party and is trying to decide whether or not to accept the
invitation.”
“Who’s the invitation from?” Becky, a blond, round woman who works as a bank teller, asks.
“His name’s Chip,” Pamela tells them.
“Is he hot?” asks Sandra, a black woman with smooth skin, big hazel eyes, and long box braids
who owns a downtown art gallery.
I scratch my nose. “He kind of is,” I confess.
Choruses of “Do it!” and “Say yes. Go!” echo around the table.
I shake my head. “You people are terrible.” But I’m laughing as I say it, and I realize I’ve already
decided to accept Chip’s invitation.
Only because I want to continue expanding my social circle, I tell myself.
But I know that’s a lie.
“One problem,” I say. “It’s a costume party, and I don’t have a costume.”
“You know,” Becky says, “one year, I wore my wedding dress as a Halloween costume.”
The women at the table hoot with laughter, and Becky defends her choice. “It’s not like I was ever
going to wear it again for anything else.”
I join in the laughter, even though I know Becky’s solution won’t work for me. Even though I
could still fit into my wedding dress, showing up to Chip’s motorcycle club dressed as a bride
seemed a bit much.
By the end of dinner, I’ve gotten a pile of suggestions, none of which really seem quite right.
“I have an idea,” says Gina, a dark-haired woman in her late 50s. “I took my granddaughter to one
of those pop-up Halloween stores the other day.” She glances at her watch. “I think it’s still open. We
should go over there and find something for Jolene to wear to her party.”
And before I know it, we’ve paid our tabs and are meeting up at the nearest Ghost of Halloween
Present store in a nearby strip mall.
The shop has more Halloween-themed items than I ever really realized existed. And Pamela’s
friends—who are quickly becoming my friends, much to my delight—have almost as many
suggestions for costumes.
Some of those suggestions are ridiculous, like Becky’s suggestion that I go as a zombie.
“No,” Sandra objects. “She’s going to a hot guy’s party. She needs something sexy.” She turns
around and holds up a 1960s-style flower-power dress. “You’re a counselor. Peace and love seem
appropriate for you.”
I snort. “But not so much the drugs and free sex. Not really my style.”
Well . . . okay. Not the drugs. But sex with Chip?
Good lord. I have to stop thinking like this!
“What about a witch?” Gina asks, holding up a pointy hat and miniature broomstick. “Add a sexy
black dress, and you’re good to go.”
“That might work,” I say.
But then I turn around and begin flipping through the rack of costumes.
And there it is.
 A long, flowing gown with gold and white interlocking squares printed along the sleeves and hem.
I check the tag. Greek/Roman Goddess Costume, it reads.
I remember the words on the back of Chip’s jacket.
Sons of Gods.
Not to mention his own nickname, Zeus.
“This is it,” I announce. “This is the right costume.”
I can’t explain why, but all the other women ooh and ahh over it.
“You will look absolutely stunning in that,” Pamela says.
So I purchase the costume, complete with a costume jewelry headpiece and two gold, circular
armbands.
My stomach clenches a little as I use my debit card to buy it.
Am I really going to show up to a Sons of Gods motorcycle club costume party in a Greco-
Roman goddess outfit?
But in the end, I decided to go with the instinct that told me it was the right costume as soon as I
saw it.
Now I simply have to force myself to actually go to the party.
 EIGHT

Zeus
The club is booming with loud music, and practically everyone is dressed up in some sort of
costume. Calli is here with Eros, and she’s dressed up as a SWAT officer while he’s in a prison
uniform. Pan is dressed up in some sort of gothic getup with a fake mustache, looking particularly
pale this evening. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to be. But, the
moment Trix walks in the front door in a long black gown with thick eyeliner and their baby boy Atlas
in an on-theme outfit, I figure they must be dressing up as people from the Addams family.
Other than those two couplings, everyone else is something random as shit. Kratos is dressed up
as Spider-Man, Hades looks like he’s someone from Men in Black, and Amira is here dressed up as
Jasmine from the Disney movie Aladdin. Overall, everyone seems to be having a damn good time. I
smirk at myself as I take a sip of the beer, anxiously awaiting the woman I invited to show up. The
party’s been going on for an hour now, and I’m starting to get the feeling that I might get stood up.
Calli walks over to me and has something behind her back in her hand. As she approaches, I raise
a brow. “What do you have there?”
“A fun present, and it happens to be something you can use tonight. I mean, Dad, this is a
Halloween party. A freaking costume party and you’re . . . wearing what you always do. Biker boots,
dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and your cut. Did you not want to dress up?”
“I don’t need to dress up,” I grumble, knowing my daughter has something up her sleeve.
“Yes, you do. It’s the whole point of having a Halloween party in the first place. So, I took it upon
myself to get you these.” Calli pulls out her hand from behind her, and in her hand, she has a gold
lightning bolt and some sort of golden leaf headband. “It’s for the Zeus costume. I didn’t bother
bringing the white cloth because I knew you wouldn’t put it on in the first place. But, I figured you
could at least put on this and hold the lightning bolt.”
I chuckle lowly at my daughter’s good intentions and how witty this idea was. “Fine, but don’t
think you can pull this shit on me next year,” I warn, and Calli giggles lightly before placing the
golden headband over my head and giving me the lightning bolt.
She smiles widely and then looks over at the door. “You’ve had your eyes on the door all night.
Are you waiting for someone?”
I inhale slowly through my nose, knowing I can’t lie to her. “I am, actually. She hasn’t shown up
yet.”
 “The night is still young. Maybe she’s just putting on the perfect outfit to blow you away.”
“I sure hope so.” If she isn’t, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past this. I never thought I’d
move on after Razi died, so trying to make a move on a woman and being turned down would fucking
hit me where it hurts.
“Who is she?”
“Hmm?” I turn my attention back to my daughter, who’s staring up at me with those glimmering
blue eyes of hers. The same eyes she somehow inherited from me, even when all of her mother’s
genetics were more dominant.
“The woman you invited. Who is she?”
Ah, well, here I go. “She’s the therapy group leader of the group your sister had me go to.”
“Mmm, so that bullshit reason you gave me for changing to solo therapy is just that. It’s bullshit.”
Calli smiles from ear to ear. “Don’t get me wrong, Dad. I’m not standing here casting judgment. If
she’s kind to you and treats you right, then I want you to follow your heart. And for the record, I think
it’s really good that you decided to leave the group setting and find a solo therapist, especially since
you’re interested in her. It would be a conflict of interest on her part, and I imagine that would be a lot
to deal with.”
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ about all that. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do in the first place. Just
figured if I’m gonna pull the trigger, then I need to do it the right way.”
The moment I tell Calli this, the front door to the clubhouse opens, and there she is. Jolene’s
wearing a long, flowing white gown. It has white and gold interlocking squares printed along the
sleeves of it, and she’s wearing two gold circular armbands. She’s also wearing a headpiece, and all
I can think about is how gorgeous she looks.
“Looks like you did it the right way, and maybe you found the Athena to your Zeus,” Calli smirks
as she walks away and heads back over to her ol’ man.
Jolene spots me, and we both begin walking toward each other. Once we’re within reach, I can’t
help but compliment her on her costume. “You look amazing.”
“And you look . . . different than usual. Love the headband, but the lightning bolt really gives you
a spark.” Jolene makes her joke with a pun, and I chuckle at the attempt. I didn’t realize she was so
corny with her humor, but it’s something I could get used to. I love to laugh, and I haven’t done it too
much lately.
“That was a good one.” I snicker, and it’s like Jolene’s smile is extending to her eyes.
Over the next couple of hours, Jolene has a couple of drinks, and I have another beer. I don’t want
to drink too much right now since this is our first ‘date’. At least, I think it’s a date. I don’t know if
Jolene realizes I even asked her out on one. Maybe she thinks it’s just a friendly outing, but I hope she
knows better.
Hell, the other day, when it happened to be her on the side of the road with the flat tire, I had a bit
more time to talk to her. It was enough time to convince me inviting her to the party tonight was a
good idea. I saw that the two of us had some sort of connection, and I really wanted to test it out.
From the way she’s staring at me right now, I know I’m not losing my damn mind. Not yet at least.
Some of the brothers start dancing with some women, so I take Jolene over to the dance floor to
shake what her mama gave her. We both laugh, having a damn good time, but in the midst of dancing
with Jolene, I spot Risk’s green-eyed gaze. She’s leaning up against the back wall, staring daggers
into me like it might make a difference, but it won’t.
Risk ends up storming off back toward her bedroom. For a second, I wonder if, in her delusional
mind, she thinks that I’m going to chase after her or if inviting Jolene was only to make her jealous.
 “I need to get another drink. These are amazing,” Jolene yells in my ear over the loud music.
I take her up to the bar, and she orders another one of the ‘Skele-Spookies’. Calli created a drink
list of Halloween-themed drinks for the party tonight for the prospects to make. Once she has her
drink in hand, she leads me outside. I revel in the chill October air, and it feels damn nice to get out of
the stuffy clubhouse.
Jolene takes a sip of her drink and sighs. “You know, I had to convince myself to come here. I kept
trying to find every reason under the sun to avoid it, but I’m glad I came. This has been a lot of fun.”
“I, for one, am glad you came. I kept thinkin’ you were gonna stand me up after a while, though.”
Jolene places her hand on my forearm. “I’d never stand you up, Chip. I’m honored you invited me
here in the first place.”
“Thanks for comin’ here, darlin’. You’ve really made my night a memorable one.” I’m speaking
from the heart here, and Jolene takes a step closer to me.
She licks her lips nervously and places one hand on my cut, running her fingers on it softly. She
stands up on her tippy toes, and I realize what she’s trying to do, so I meet her halfway, colliding my
lips with her own.
She tastes like the fruity mixture that’s in the drink, but she smells of vanilla and coffee, oddly
enough. I’ve never smelled a mixture like that on a woman, but it’s a damn good one. Jolene pulls
away from the kiss with a massive smile dragged across her face, and I think I’m looking the same
damn way.
We end up heading back into the clubhouse and have some food and get another round of drinks.
The two of us are having a blast together, and this night is going better than I ever thought it would.
Out of the blue, Jolene turns to me, placing her hand on my arm.
“Um, so I haven’t done this in a minute, but would you like to come back to my place?” Jolene
asks with an adorable smirk at the end.
“I somehow feel like it’s been more than a minute, sweetheart. But, yeah, I’d love to go back with
you.” I can’t help but tease her a bit. Jolene’s been through literal hell, just like I have. As time passes
by, I’m beginning to realize how much our connection stems from the pain we’ve both experienced.
Truth be told after Razi died, I never thought I’d want to be romantically involved with another
woman . . . but Jolene is awakening my ice-cold, dead heart.
“Cool.” Jolene smiles softly and looks up at me through thick lashes. She’s had a couple of drinks
here tonight, and while I don’t think she’s a lightweight by any means, I don’t want to put her in a
position where she isn’t comfortable.
“C’mon, let’s head on out. It’s only gonna get rowdier as the night goes on.” I grab onto Jolene’s
hand and walk her through the packed clubhouse. The keys to my truck and bike are already in the
pocket of my jeans. I debate taking Jolene for a ride on my bike for a split second but then realize I
don’t want the skirt of her dress to come up. She’s damn gorgeous in her Athena getup, but I don’t
want anyone we ride by to see any of her goods. So, we’re taking the truck.
We walk out of the clubhouse and head toward my black truck. I unlock it and open the door for
Jolene, offering her a hand as she steps up on the side step and slides onto the seat. Once she’s inside,
I make sure the skirts of her costume aren’t going to get caught in the door, then shut it for her. I walk
around the other side and hop in, put the key in the ignition, and it comes to life.
Jolene and I make small talk on the drive over, but for the most part, it’s nothing too serious. The
drive is an easy one, and her house doesn’t take too long to get to. It’s a little over ten minutes away,
and as she tells me the next driveway on the right is hers, I’m mesmerized by her home. It’s a
craftsman-style bungalow with a glassed-in front porch, and there’s a tall wooden fence that comes
out on either side of the house. I would’ve taken her as someone who wanted something a bit posher,
but looking back at it now, I don’t know why I would assume that. Her home is a good representation
of what she is—beautiful and unique.
I pull up to the house and throw the truck in park. Only a few moments later are we both getting
out of the truck, heading up the short stairwell to her glassed-in front porch.
 NINE

Jolene
As soon as I shut my door behind us, we’re all over each other, kissing with an intensity, a
ferocity, like I haven’t felt since Allan and Danielle died.
I shove all thoughts of my husband down deep.
After all, I know without a doubt that Allan would want me to be happy and would want me to
find a way to move on with my life, including my sex life.
I take Zeus by the hand and lead him into my bedroom, where I turn on a soft lamp.
“Let me know if you would rather keep the light off,” I say. “But I kind of like to be able to see
what I’m doing,” I add with a grin.
“Light works for me,” he says, his voice gruff with desire as his gaze rakes over my body from
head to toe. “And as much as I like this costume,” he says, his hand going to the golden cord serving
as a belt around my waist, “I can’t wait to see you out of it.” He quickly, deftly unties the knot. The
rope slithers to the floor, and the soft cotton fabric drapes around me. It’s a simple design—two
single panels of fabric sewn together. There are snaps at the shoulders, and swiftly, Zeus unfastens
them.
The gown instantly drops down to pool around my ankles.
Underneath it, I’m wearing a matching white lace bra and panties set. Zeus stares at me
admiringly, and instinctively, I slide my palm over my abdomen in an attempt to cover the stretch
marks left over from my pregnancy with Danielle.
“Don’t,” Zeus says, gently taking my hand away from my stomach. “I want to see all of you. It’s
all beautiful.”
I reach up and push his jacket off his shoulders, and with a wry grin, he strips off his shirt,
revealing a hard, muscled torso—one with many more scars than I have. I run my forefinger along the
thin, pale scar line across his chest.
“Knife fight in my wayward youth,” he tells me.
I touch another one, raising my eyebrows inquiringly.
“That’s from my more recent wayward adulthood.”
I laugh and lean in to kiss it.
When I pull back, he tugs me up to his mouth and kisses me, walking me back to the bed as he
unbuckles his belt.
 He sits down on the bed and kicks off his boots, then stands again and pushes his jeans down to
step out of them.
I sigh at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous all over, and I reach out to run my hands over his
shoulders.
We come together hard and fast, pausing only long enough to feverishly remove the rest of each
other’s clothing.
Zeus leans over the side of the bed to pull his wallet out of his jacket pocket and retrieves a
condom. I help him roll it down over the hard, long length of him, realizing that I want to feel him
inside me more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
He slides into me, his thick cock stretching and filling me.
I sigh again, this time in delight.
We move together perfectly like we’re made for each other. He pulls my legs up to wrap them
around his waist, my heels digging into his ass as I meet him, thrust for thrust.
Holding himself up with one hand, he slides the other between us, rolling his thumb against my
clit as he moves in and out of me, the rhythm sending chills racing through me.
An orgasm hits me unexpectedly, and my entire body clenches around him, holding him inside me
as I cry out his name, alternating between Chip and Zeus.
Almost as soon as I come, he does, too, his cock jerking inside me. He slips both arms under my
back and pulls me against him until we’re both sitting up.
With a final groan, he lowers me to the bed gently, and grasping the condom against the base of his
cock, he slowly withdraws.
“Well, shit,” he mutters as he stares down at himself.
He’s kneeling between my legs, and I push up on my elbows to stare at him. “What is it?”
“The condom broke.” Worry threads through his voice. He glances up at me, his brow furrowed
into a frown.
I nod slowly. “Well, that happens sometimes. I can’t get pregnant—not without medical help,
anyway—and I haven’t had sex with anyone since the last time I was tested.”
“Tested?”
I shrug. “For pretty much everything. I had a short fling a couple of years after Allan and Danielle
died, but it turned out he was seeing a lot of other women, too. So, I got tested.”
“That’s the last person you were with?”
“Yeah.” I hate to admit to him that it’s been years since I’ve had sex. But after that debacle of an
attempted relationship, I’d promised myself I would always be completely honest, no matter what it
cost me.
“I think we’re okay,” Zeus says. “But if it makes you feel better, I can go get tested, too. For
everything.” He grins at me, and I smile back, appreciating his willingness to do something just to
ease my mind.
“I’d like that,” I say. “Just so neither of us has to worry.”
“Sure. I’ll go Monday,” he promises. “In the meantime, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I sit all the way up, pulling my knees to my chest, giving him room to slide off the bed. He holds
out his hand and leads me into my bathroom, where he steps into the shower and starts the water.
“Don’t come in until it warms up,” he tells me as I start to step over the threshold.
I blink but step back out.
It’s been a long time since someone’s taken such good care of me.
A moment later, he ushers me into the shower with him.
Another random document with
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 The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lady
Maclairn, the victim of villany : A novel,
volume 4 (of 4)
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Lady Maclairn, the victim of villany : A novel, volume 4 (of

4)

Author: Mrs. Hunter

Release date: September 17, 2023 [eBook #71673]

Language: English

Original publication: London: W. Earle and J. W. Hucklebridge,

1806

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
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Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY

MACLAIRN, THE VICTIM OF VILLANY : A NOVEL, VOLUME 4 (OF
4) ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
 LADY MACLAIRN,
THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.
A NOVEL.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY MRS. HUNTER,
OF NORWICH,

AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY; THE HISTORY OF THE

GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE’S LETTERS, &c.

VOL. IV.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J. W. HUCKLEBRIDGE;

AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET;

GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO.
STATIONERS’ COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND
ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

1806.
 S. Rousseau, Printer,
Wood Street, Spa Fields.
 LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.

CHAP. I.

——I will not attempt to describe my agitations!—“In order to

relieve these emotions,” continued he, “I will ease your suspence. I
have seen a person who has brought me intelligence of Duncan. A
stranger was introduced to me, at a coffee-house last night, as
wanting to know and speak to me. He announced himself as the
super-cargo of a Dutch ship, now in the Thames, and said, that he
was charged with a commission for me, by a gentleman whom he had
known at Surinam. I instantly ordered a private room, and he
informed me, that he had first seen Duncan at Amsterdam; had there
learned enough of his story to pity him; and that he made the voyage
to Surinam with him. His unfortunate condition and deep dejection,
during our passage,” added this man, “more and more interested my
feelings, for one whose education and manners had promised a very
different career. I was happily disposed to befriend him; and as,
fortunately, I had the means of so doing, for I recommended him to a
merchant there, who received him into his counting house. But the
fever of the climate seized him before he had been a fortnight on
shore. He saw his danger, and had, as it appears, been preparing for
it. He gave into my hands the picture of a young lady, which he wore
in his bosom, with a parcel, in which he informed me was contained
some letters of the lady’s, with one for you. He conjured me to deliver
these to you in person, knowing that our ship was bound to this port
on her return. I promised to observe his instructions, and I have only
further to add, Sir, that knowing, as I do, the love he cherished for
the lady, whom he blessed with his last breath, I think it right to hint
to you some precautions in acquainting her with my poor friend’s
death.” “You may suppose I satisfied him on this point,” continued
my brother, and I endeavoured to sift out of him, whether he knew
the whole of Duncan’s adventures and secrets. “It was an unhappy
business,” observed I, “that obliged this unfortunate young man to
quit England and his friends, who were able and not indisposed to
serve him, had he not been too precipitate: his flight was nearly the
death of the young woman in question. You surprise me, by telling
me that his attachment for her continued. Did he often speak of
her?” “Never,” replied he, “Nor do I even know her name or address.
When, in nearly his last hour, he gave me her picture from his
bosom, and said, Mr. Flamall knows for whom it is destined. He will
take care to tell the unfortunate injured object of my love, that
Charles Duncan has expiated all his errors, by dying, and leaving her
free.—I said, with seriousness, that the most fatal of Duncan’s errors
had been that of not knowing his best friend; a mistake, however,
which had not been shared by the young lady, whose heart he had
gained; for, that she still looked up to me for friendship and
consolation. Our conversation finished by settling our next meeting
for this morning. I have just left him, satisfied, as I believe, that
Duncan had in me a friend as generous as himself. There is your
picture and this packet of your letters, with one for me, which I have
just received from the gentleman. I will leave it for your perusal
when you are able.” He quitted me, unable to witness my distress.
My Duncan’s letter I shall copy.
 LETTER LIV.
Charles Duncan to Mr. Flamall.
“Before this reaches your hand I shall be numbered with those in
the grave, and appear before that awful Tribunal, at which mercy has
her everlasting post. There, and there only, does Charles Duncan
expect to find justice; for then alone, will his errors be weighed with
his difficulties. Enclosed is my will, in which I have left to Harriet
Duncan, my lawful wife, the whole and entire property bequeathed
to me by Margaret Duncan, my supposed mother, and the only friend
I ever knew. I have charged this, my property, with the payment of
one hundred and fifty pounds to Mynheer Adrian Vandergucht, my
last benefactor. This sum has been partly advanced for my
necessities; he will, with this, produce my acknowledgment for the
receipt of one hundred pounds. I bequeath to him fifty, as a debt of
gratitude for kindnesses which none can fully repay but his Maker;
and to his blessing and mercy do I fervently recommend him.”
“From what Mrs. Duncan repeatedly declared to me, and also from
your conversations with me, on the subject of my little fortune, I
conclude that my wife will receive three thousand pounds as her
future provision. It may be, this pittance will be shared by my child.
Let it be your care, Sir, faithfully to discharge a trust, for the due
performance of which, you will one day be called to a strict account
by a Being more to be dreaded than,
 LETTER LV.
My letter from my unfortunate Charles contained these words:
“Forget, my beloved wife, that Charles Duncan ever had existence,
or that, in the miserable course of that existence, he has involved
yours in his misery, blasted the hopes of your youth, and planted
daggers in your faithful bosom. Forget, if thou canst forget, when
pressing to thy maternal bosom, the fruit of thy ill-fated union, the
wandering, wretched father of thy babe: or with pity and forgiveness
think of him, as one at rest; rescued from ignominy: concealed from
the cruel mockery of scorn; welcoming, at this moment, the approach
of his deliverer; and looking forwards with humble hope to an
eternity, in which he will be recompensed for the trials of his mortal
state, and pardoned for those mistakes, into which his youth and
frailty betrayed him. I enclose the copy of my will, with some of your
dear letters: with these you will receive your picture, but I cannot
spare it from my bosom, whilst my trembling hand is able to raise it
to my lips, or do more than sign the name of thy repentant, yet
faithful,
A time was allowed me for my sorrow, and recovery from a fever of
much danger; but which was, I believe, of use to my general health;
for I certainly was less liable to illness, after this crisis. I experienced
something of those sentiments, which the dying Duncan had
suggested. I rejoiced that he was at peace; and considered my fate as
ascertained. I could not know more of grief, than I had experienced;
and in a submission, which necessity, and, I hope also, religion
enforced, I settled into a calm and resigned frame of mind. My
extreme bodily weakness favoured for a time this more placid
condition of my spirits; and my recovery promised to my tender and
assiduous brother, a renewal of his comforts. He soon mentioned Mr.
Duncan’s donation. He told me, “that knowing, as I did, that both
Keith and his wife were dead; he thought it was much the most
prudent measure to let the property remain on the stock books, as it
had done from the time of Mrs. Duncan’s committing her money and
her reputed son to his trust, till such time, as he should become of
age. His quitting England within three or four months of his being
so,” continued my brother, “prevented any settlement or transfer of
the stock, but he was mistaken in his opinion of his fortune; for it
amounts to no more than two thousand pounds.” I answered with
sincerity that I regarded it, whatever it might be, as a common fund;
and should leave to him the disposal of it as most useful to our
common comfort; and being persuaded that I should not live long, I
thought it could not be better than as it was. He laughed at my
prophetic fears, assuring me that the physician had told him I stood
a better chance of being well than when at Kensington; and he left
me with a cheerfulness, which soothed me. His attentions did not
slacken. He saw with satisfaction my returning activity, and
frequently observed, that I was never more beautiful. By degrees he
prevailed on my reluctance to visit, and receive his friends; and I as
clearly discovered, that my brother wished to see me married, as I
manifested a repugnance to the very idea of exchanging my condition
for any other. I thus attained my twenty-third year. From this period,
the calmness of my mind was disturbed, by the change I perceived in
my brother’s modes of life. With anguish of soul I discovered, that he
was tired of having a sister without ambition, and a beauty, as she
was called, on his hands, who was deaf to flattery, and who scorned
infamy, however decorated. I was stiled “a romantic idiot,” “a cold
and unempassioned statue, proud of a form that was daily becoming
useless.” I became resolute; and told him, that with any form I would
endeavour to gain honest bread. My spirit silenced him. He begged
my pardon, and pleaded his conviction, that it would be in my power
to marry the libertine, whom he had conditioned with on easy terms,
though not less profitable to his views. His fears, his regrets at seeing
me waste my youth in unavailing sorrow; his belief, that my lover
would marry me at the death of an old grandfather; his wishes to do
so secretly, were placed before me. I relented, though without
yielding to his dishonourable views, and all was again peace between
us. But I no longer considered Philip Flamall, as the guardian of a
sister’s honour. Under this conviction I soon after saw Mr. Flint, for
the first time. He came to the house, as it appeared, on business; and
finding Philip absent, seemed desirous of waiting for his expected
return; he was accordingly conducted to me, as a client of too much
consequence to remain unnoticed in the office. His age and
respectable appearance, induced me to shew him every mark of
respect. I recollected my father’s opinion of Mr. Flint and his family;
and I tried to please him by my attentions. My guest contentedly
maintained his post till my brother returned at the dining hour;
fortunately we were alone that day; and Mr. Flint, who accepted at
once of the invitation, found only a table at which economy presided;
I retired as soon as my office was finished; but I was told that he
meant to breakfast with my brother the next morning. Unconsciously
I endeavoured to secure to Philip this wealthy client; and as it will
appear, I succeeded.

Some days after, my brother with much seriousness informed me,

that my modest and composed deportment had pleased Mr. Flint.
“He has not only made his proposals to me of jointuring you in four
hundred pounds per annum,” added he, “but he has also, on hearing
the precise state of my fortune, engaged to befriend me, by lending
me a sum of money which may turn to good account. He knew my
father, and he is no stranger to the difficulties in which he left me
involved.”—I attempted to speak—“Hear me to the end,” pursued he,
“before you condemn a brother to a goal. This man’s age, his retired
habits of life, and his fair character in the world for his uprightness,
renders him more an object of veneration than of love. You may
recompense him for the protection of the parent, by the kind offices
of the daughter, whilst, by the union he solicits, you are securing to
yourself an honourable name and independence, and saving me from
ruin; for I tell you plainly, that I am already in a state of insolvency,
in regard to credit. I will have you to consider of the answer you will
commission me to give Mr. Flint.” “It is not necessary to deliberate,”
replied I weeping bitterly. “The knowledge of my real situation will at
once convince Mr. Flint, that I am not a suitable companion for his
children, nor a becoming choice for him, and without adverting to
the folly, which has led him to think of marriage, it will be enough
that he knows, that I am Duncan’s widow.”

Never shall I forget my brother’s fury! “Be a fool to the last!” cried
he, “See me a beggar! blast my character with your own! sink me to a
level with your highway-robber! But know,” added he trembling,
“that I can be as desperate as your Duncan. I will not be an outlaw
for one purse! Can you be so weak as to think any man will marry
you, under the name of Duncan? What has this miscreant to do with
the present question? He is dead, the witnesses of your accursed
marriage are dead. You have persisted in bearing your own name,
and the character of an unmarried woman. Oh Harriet! let me plead
for your youth, your helpless condition of fortune; for your
innocence, and for a brother who loves you! Marry this worthy man:
and let me see you protected from the dangers of the world!” I was
subdued. I forsook the path of rectitude, and, as Harriet Flamall,
married Mr. Flint, who was three times my age.
 CHAP. II.

We quitted London a few days after the ceremony was performed,

and I now had leisure to repent of my weakness and timidity. My
introduction to my husband’s family was humiliating and painful to
the last degree of suffering sensibility. I was not only an intruder, but
I was an usurper of the rights I claimed; and I felt that, in my
assumed title of Mrs. Flint was contained a reproach, which covered
me with confusion every time I heard it pronounced. My only
consolation sprang from the resolution of devoting my life to the
man, whom I had thus deceived. He was fond of me, and I studied
incessantly to make him contented with his wife. I foolishly began to
think that I should contribute to the slender stock of domestic
comfort which I found at Farefield Hall. Mr. Percival Flint, and his
amiable sister Mary appeared to treat me as one destined to enlarge
their, and their father’s happiness: even Miss Flint seemed
reconciled to the young mother-in-law, who had, in no instance
abridged her in her authority. I was fond of flowers, and already
began to enjoy the amusement of the garden. Mr. Percival one
morning entered my dressing room, where Lucretia and myself were
at our needle work, my husband having taken his darling Mary with
him in his airing; his hands were filled with some rare and beautiful
plants, and I found that this was a tribute to my peculiar taste. My
thanks followed, and Percival withdrew, in order to see the plants
properly disposed of. “You have converted,” observed Miss Flint with
a malicious laugh, “our grave and solemn book-worm into a useful
being. What a thousand pities it is! that Percival had not seen you
before his father:” as the business is now managed he must remain
the “despairing shepherd;” for I think the public cruelty prohibits the
son-in-law from marrying the mother-in-law, who in many cases
might console the poor widow. “My countenance marked how little
this levity pleased me.” “Dear me!” pursued she, “you need not look
so offended, or be displeased with so harmless a joke; you cannot
help Percival’s playing the fool, nor prevent people’s thinking, that
the father at seventy is not altogether so handsome as the son at
twenty-three or four: you might be tempted to acknowledge this
truth yourself were it not for this unlucky relationship; you could not
in conscience deny that he is much better qualified to succeed Mr.
Duncan, than his father.”—I heard no more; for yielding to terror
and surprise I fainted, and my successive fits alarmed the family;
and, as I supposed, moved to pity the cruel insulter, who had brought
them on me. She was very assiduous and attentive to me during the
few days of my convalescence; and with much humility begged my
pardon, saying that she had never entertained the slightest suspicion
prejudicial to me; but that having heard of a disappointment of a
tender kind, which for a time had injured my health and spirits, she
frankly confessed that she had attributed my choice of her father to
that cause; believing that no woman with my beauty, and at my age,
would prefer for an husband a man old enough for her grandfather.
“I neither intended to reproach you or that choice, nor to hurt your
feelings by naming the gentleman in question,” added she. “I simply
wished to establish between us a confidence and friendship which I
conceived might be useful to us both. I have my secrets, my dear
Harriet; and my heart has suffered like your own, the pangs of
unrequited, nay, abused love.” She proceeded to inform me of Mr.
Howard’s perfidy, who, after having gained her affections, had
voluntarily given himself up to the arts of her sister, who with a
pretty face, and the years of a child had basely supplanted her in the
opinion of a man, whom she well knew was necessary to her
happiness; and who had from her very cradle shown the greatest
cunning and address in rendering every one subservient to her will;
and she warned me at the same time of her absolute power over my
husband.

Subdued by conscience, and uncertain of the extent of the

information which Miss Flint had gained, with the knowledge of Mr.
Duncan’s name, I accepted of her apology; and still further tutored
by my brother, passively yielded to an authority, with which I was
unable to contend. I tamely witnessed the treatment which poor Miss
Mary received from her enraged and implacable sister, and finally
saw the innocent girl ruined in her father’s love. My husband was
incensed by some letters of Mr. Howard’s, which fell into Lucretia’s
hands; these were incautiously preserved by the fond girl, and they
were certainly such, as Mr. Howard had done much more wisely not
to have written. I endeavoured to soften my husband’s resentment;
and I should have succeeded; for he loved his daughter Mary, even, if
I may be allowed to speak, to a degree of weakness; and he was
wretched because she was unhappy. He spoke to my brother on the
subject, and discovered an inclination to unity and forgiveness,
requesting him to employ his influence with Lucretia to give up to a
sister a man whom she could not win for herself; adding, that
notwithstanding Mr. Howard had so highly offended him, he would
pass over every thing for the sake of peace, and to content poor Mary.
My brother instead of executing this commission, sternly warned me
to take care of what I was doing. “Were you any thing but what you
are,” said he, “you would perceive the danger of your interfering with
this virago; let her alone: in time you will see her your slave instead
of your tyrant. Trust not to the fondness of your husband; you see
what she has effected with her father in regard to her sister. Judge of
her power by this proof of it, and avoid offending her: you will ruin
yourself, and serve no one.”

I believe it is not useless to mention here, that on my marriage

taking place my brother took his degree as barrister, and quitting his
house in Red Lion Square, took apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Whether his former clients forgot him, or he them, I know not; but
so it was; he resided almost constantly at the Hall, and became useful
to Mr. Flint in return for the hospitality he found. Confined
principally to the care of amusing and nursing my husband, whose
health rapidly declined under the perpetual vexations he endured, I
could not help perceiving that my influence was sedulously watched;
and every time he expressed the regrets he experienced from being
prevented seeing his child, I was suspected of having produced those
relentings of nature in her favour, and was reproached by Mr.
Flamall for my folly in being blind to my own interest; and I was told
that I had nothing to do but to attend to my husband. I perfectly
understood this language, and I did attend to my husband; but it
was not to deceive, or insult him. He was too weak to be advised by
me; and unhappily feeling at times the state of abject slavery, to
which his own weakness had reduced him, he vented his resentments
in peevish complaints, and angry reproaches, that I was too passive
and indifferent to defend him against his tormentor; then, weeping
like an infant, he would beg me not to leave him, for that I was his
only comfort.

One day he mentioned the disposition he had made of his

property, adding, that his children would think of him when he was
dead, although they had abandoned him whilst living. “As to you, my
poor Harriet,” said he, “I have taken care to leave you enough for
your ambition, though I can never repay you for the loss of your
health, which will be destroyed by your attendance on me. You will
find, besides your jointure, a legacy of three thousand pounds, with
which you may settle yourself comfortably when they send you from
hence: this sum is in your brother’s hands, and he may perhaps
recollect when you shew him the bond, that he is in arrears for the
interest ever since your marriage. He was a needy man, my Harriet,
when I lent him the money, and I warn you not to trust him with
your affairs when I am gone, although he is your brother.” That very
evening he was seized with convulsions. I pass over an interval of
suffering which was terminated by his death.

I will not attempt to describe my astonishment on hearing the

deceased Mr. Flint’s will read. Let it suffice that its contents were
such as astonished every one. My name only appeared in it, as having
been provided for at my marriage; and as it was necessary to specify
that the jointure which had so provided for me, was to revert to Miss
Flint at my decease, on failure of issue. I retired to my apartment
overwhelmed with grief and confusion. Mr. and Mrs. Howard might
be said to have haunted my imagination; I had witnessed their
distress on hearing this unjust will read; they were continually before
me; and innocent as I was, I felt my soul agonised by the internal
conviction which pressed upon me, that all was not honourable, yet a
suspicion of my brother reached only to another enigma. What was
become of the bond? This question was on my lips more than once;
but Philip had succeeded in making himself more the object of my
dread than confidence. To retire from the Hall; to assert the
independence which I had so dearly purchased; to share with the
Howards their father’s bounty, were the purposes of my mind, and
its support. In the mean time I was treated with unusual respect and
attention by Miss Flint, who repeatedly assured me, that the object of
her father’s affections would always have claims on her own; that she
could not bear to see me so depressed by an event which was to be
expected in the common course of nature; and that if I thought I had
not been sufficiently considered for the sacrifices of health and
pleasure, she was certain that her father’s omission resulted from his
firm persuasion that we should always share the same abode and
domestic comforts. I blushed, and replied, that I had every reason to
be contented with Mr. Flint’s generosity and affection. “Had the
provision allotted me,” added I with more spirit, “been only a fourth
part of what it is, I should have been satisfied; for I seek only
independence.” She looked disappointed, and changed the subject of
conversation.

My brother paid me a visit the following morning; and having in

vain requested me to take an airing, grew angry. “Wherefore is it,
Harriet,” said he with a petulant air, “that you affect to play the
Ephesian Matron with me? It is impossible you can regret the death
of a doating, childish old man, worn out by sufferings, at seventy and
upwards? To what purpose this seclusion, this dejection, these
perpetual tears? One would imagine you had already been entombed
long enough! But there is no remedy for a romantic mind,” continued
he with more tenderness. “Any other woman but yourself would have
resented his want of generosity. You are poorly recompensed, my
dear girl, for your watching, and for the loss of your beauty.” “I have
enough for my wants,” answered I, “and much more than I
deserved.” “I was not of that opinion,” replied he, “and soon after
your marriage gave Mr. Flint to understand that I thought his widow
was but slenderly provided for, unless further considered. He told me
that he had thought as I did, and had acted accordingly. He added
that you were the only comfort he had in this world; that he had to
thank me for the blessing, and that I should find he had not forgotten
my kindness. I have reason,” continued Philip, “to think that he kept
his word, and destroyed the bond he held against me; for it has not
appeared.” I concealed my face in the sopha-cushion, otherwise he
must have perceived my astonishment. “This consideration on his
part,” continued he, “has been however repaid on mine, for I have
been useful to him in my professional way, and never charged him
sixpence.” I sighed profoundly—“Come,” cried he, assuming a more
cheerful air, “let us now look forward to more pleasing prospects.
You may yet be mistress here.”

I was now told of his intrigue with Miss Flint; of his unhappily
being a married man; and of the worthlessness of his wife, who
exercised over him an empire, in all things save that of bearing his
name. In a word, Miss Flint’s critical situation was brought forward,
and my agency was demanded as the only means of saving her fame,
and the infant from the disgrace of an illegitimate birth. I listened to
this discourse with disgust, and even horror; but, suppressing my
feelings, I told him with firmness, that I had gone already too far into
concealments, not to discover the danger of the road; that I meant to
quit the Hall, and had already formed my plans for my future life.
“These,” added I, bursting into tears, “will not, nor can be
subservient to your, or Miss Flint’s views.” “You will change your
mind,” replied he sternly, “when I tell you, that, what you have
refused to do from gratitude and affection to a brother, may be
thought expedient to perform for your own safety. Miss Flint has
known the particulars of your first marriage from the day you
appeared here as her father’s wife. Moreover she insists upon it, that
you have no legal proofs of Duncan’s death, nor any claim to your
jointure, from its having been granted under a name and character to
which you had no right. You will do well to reflect on her temper, and
on your condition, under a prosecution for bigamy. My evidence, in
your favour amounts simply to the Dutchman’s verbal attestation of
being at Duncan’s funeral, and his letters and will written at
Surinam. These with me are conclusive proofs; but I know not how
far they would be so thought in a court at Doctor’s Commons; nor
with what consequences at the best, your marrying when a widow
under your maiden name may be attended.”—“My punishment is
just,” exclaimed I, “I will avow the truth, I will not take Mr. Flint’s
money. I will go where I may mourn my lost happiness and die. I ask
you only to provide me an asylum for the moment. I will not be a