Hunter (The Devil's Dragons Motorcycle Club) Read online

  My swelling baby bump told me otherwise.

  As much as I loved the idea of lying in this bed and sleeping in, I had woken up for a reason: I truly, desperately needed to pee.

  Quickly pulling on enough of my clothes to make myself look halfway decent, I waddled out and down the hall to the bathroom. Without a second to lose, I slammed down on the toilet seat and enjoyed the deep, soothing relief of an emptying bladder.

  Ah, motherhood.

  Once I was done, I scrubbed my face and hastily brushed my teeth in the basin. It was then that, for the first time in ages, I really looked at myself in the mirror.

  My hair was a mess.

  Bags hung under my eyes.

  Trace zits and acne pocked my skin.

  I looked like a walking disaster, and I realized that I hadn’t packed any beauty products in the rush to get down here. After hanging around with Hunter and his Devil’s Dragons MC, I’d let simple things from my old life fade away… things like makeup and beauty upkeep.

  Hunter had made a tomboy out of me.

  Not that I was ever super into that stuff to begin with. While I grew up under his watchful eye, my father was increasingly critical of the makeup he’d see on girls my age.

  Harlots, he called them.

  Way too young to be wearing that stuff.

  It’s not that he didn’t have a point… but Dad always seemed like he was stuck in the past. He was never good at adapting to changing times.

  Hell, he was so resilient to change that he was the last man in his entire precinct to even carry a cell phone, and even that was only after his boss outright demanded it…

  I smiled fondly.

  Dad could be a real bastard.

  But at the end of the day, he was still my father. He had his quirks, just like the rest of us. His were just… a little more difficult.

  Speaking of, I needed to see how the two men were getting along. The lack of gravelly shouting, and even shotgun blasts, told me that whatever was waiting downstairs might be in better spirits than last night.

  Unless they’d already killed each other…

  I wandered back to my room, where I dressed myself a little more appropriately. In my standing mirror, I adjusted my garments to try to hide the baby bump just a little more.

  A sigh left my lips.

  I’d have to tell Dad soon.

  There was no hiding it from him, especially not right under his nose… I wondered to myself. How much can he take at once?

  I knew I didn’t have much time here.

  Maybe I should just rip off the band-aid…

  Speaking of the devil, I heard his guttural voice ring out from downstairs: “Sarah! Are you going to even bother getting your lazy ass out of bed today?”

  I called out down the hall: “Coming!”

  A few minutes later, after having to pause on the steps briefly to catch my breath, I made my way back into the spacious kitchen again.

  Dad was perched at the table, stuffing his face with a stack of flapjacks. He didn’t bother looking up over his shoulder as I walked into the room, making my way towards Hunter.

  I stifled laughter.

  Hunter was standing over an array of cast iron cookware on a hot stove, baking flapjacks in a frilly pink apron easily two sizes too small. The color especially clashed with the dark green tee he’d thrown on over his black jeans. As he turned his attention towards me, the spatula in one hand flipped a thick, bubbly disc over; with the other, his worn fingers mimicked the barrel of a gun against his head.

  I covered my laugh with a hand.

  “Babe, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Hunter opened his mouth to reply. My father cut him off from the table, his back still turned to us. “Almost worth having this scoundrel in my house to see him wear that musty old thing.”

  I smiled at Hunter, rolling my eyes. “Well, I’ll take whatever signs of progress I can get.”

  “Bah.” Dad returned to his breakfast.

  Hunter cast him a mocking look, then put the spatula down and wrapped his arms around me. “How’d you sleep, Sarah?”

  “Better than usual, actually.”

  “That’s right,” Dad spoke up with a mouthful of breakfast. “That’s because you’re back home, where you belong.”

  Hunter scowled.

  I rubbed his arm as I pulled away, eying the fresh stack of flapjacks to the side. On separate plates, there were fried eggs, sizzling sausages, and even a little fresh bacon. It didn’t escape my notice that a handful of small spice canisters were scattered around, clearly used; my man was really pulling out all the stops here.

  “Help yourself,” Hunter noted. “I’ve warmed some butter up, and there should be some syrup on the counter around here…”

  “Thanks, babe,” I kissed him on the cheek.

  After preparing myself a quick plate, I walked over to sit across from my father. We ate together in silence for a few minutes; the only sounds in the room came from the sizzling of the stovetop and the scraping of the spatula against the iron griddle and pans.

  “How long are you going to be here?”

  I realized I’d been gazing out the window, and turned to see my father chewing with his hands clasped together, elbows on the table.

  “Haven’t given it much thought,” I replied, focusing on my plate as I cut another bite to eat. “Until you two are getting along, probably.”

  “Heh!” Dad scoffed.

  Even Hunter seemed amused.

  My father leaned forward. “Guess you’d better get used to being back under this roof, then… seeing as that’ll happen over my dead body.”

  I put my silverware back down.

  “Would it kill you to get over your grudge?”

  Dad shrugged. “Probably.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Look… I’m not expecting a fucking miracle here, but–”

  “Sarah–”

  “No. You shut up and listen to me for once,” I jabbed my finger at him. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you… of the two of you… but damn it all to hell, I need this. I need both of you to set your stupid bullshit aside and make amends, if only for my sake. Please.”

  My father reached for his cane and stood up.

  “I am not going to tolerate this in my own goddamn house,” he growled at me. “I sure as shit didn’t raise you to talk back to your father…

  He turned around. “And as for you–“

  Suddenly, my father paused.

  I looked over his shoulder to see Hunter frozen in place, spatula held up with that stupid, frilly pink apron around his waist. Between the startled, blank look on his face and the comically tiny, feminine fabric around his hardened chest, Hunter looked way more like a cartoon character than a veteran biker.

  To my astonishment, Dad laughed.

  He lent over that wooden cane of his and, honest to God… my stick-in-the-mud, stone-faced father heartily laughed.

  Hunter and I met each other’s gazes.

  He was just as perplexed as I was.

  “You look like a fruit!” My father laughed, wiping at his eye. “Like a goddamn watermelon! I nearly forgot that I made you put on that stupid old thing!”

  As he hobbled out of the kitchen, shaking his head, I could hear Dad’s laughter continue down the hallway and towards the den.

  Hunter looked down at it for a moment.

  He met my gaze again.

  “Don’t see what the old coot’s problem is,” he shrugged, flipping another steaming hot flapjack onto the stack. “I think I rock it.”

  Fourteen

  Hunter

  While Sarah spent some quality time watching cable in the den with her father, I started cleaning up the aftermath of breakfast.

  Crisis averted… for now.

  I didn’t know Jack to tolerate dissent, and that seemed to go double for his own flesh and blood. It kind of surprised me that he hadn’t just made us leave when she started to lose her temper.

&nbs
p; Hell. I didn’t know what more she wanted out of me, though. I’d been on my best damn behavior since stepping back into this house.

  Well, as far as old Jack knew…

  A smile crossed my face. Just thinking about the intensely hot night before made my drained cock twitch in my jeans.

  I threw a dirty look downward.

  Down, boy.

  Keeping myself distracted, I left all the filthy, heavy cookware to soak in the kitchen sink. Done with that, I scrubbed down his stove and wiped off the hard drops of batter from his counter.

  I glanced over at the black cookware again as it soaked in the hot bubbles. It hadn’t been much effort for me to move it around, but it had to have weighed a goddamn ton. Hell, even the shelves where he kept half this shit under the counter were bowing beneath the pressure.

  Why the hell does he keep such heavy shit around if he has to live with a cane? For God’s sakes, man: invest in stainless steel!

  I shrugged to myself.

  Whatever.

  As I wiped my hands clean on a rag, I noticed that I still had that little apron tied tightly around me. For a second, I considered joining them while still wearing the damn thing, but there’s only so much bruising a man’s pride can take.

  Even for the sake of his woman.

  I hung it back up in the pantry and grabbed a few cold ones from the fridge. I wandered back towards the den to join them, reminding myself to come back and finish scrubbing the cookware in an hour.

  Jack, leaned back in his recliner, didn’t budge an inch as I stepped into the room. As my eyes trailed across Sarah – curled up on the couch end near him, and smiling over at me – I could see that he had some old western flick on.

  “Whatcha watching?”

  He only grunted.

  Oh, good, I thought to myself. Got his laugh in, and now we’re back to this grumbling shit…

  I walked over and handed Jack a beer.

  Begrudgingly, he took the bottle from my grasp and immediately popped the top off in his bare, cupped palm.

  “You know that trick, boy?”

  “Sure as shit do.”

  I set the third bottle down and followed suit with the one still in my other hand, pocketing the bottle cap.

  He merely nodded, turning back to the film.

  “Here you go, babe–”

  Sarah glanced up at me in shock.

  I had paused halfway into handing her the open bottle of beer. Goddammit Hunter, you idiot! I growled at myself. How could you be so stupid!

  “No thanks,” she shook her head.

  “Nonsense,” Jack muttered.

  I kept the beer and sat down next to her.

  “Sarah’s not much a beer drinker.”

  “Bullshit,” Jack grunted, finally pulling his gaze from the television. “I’ve been giving her sips from my drinks since she was in diapers.”

  Sarah held her cool, keeping her eyes on the film. “Not right now, but thanks Dad. Maybe later tonight, with dinner…”

  The second that I laid eyes on it, Jack grabbed up the spare bottle of beer and popped the top.

  “Here,” he grunted. “Stop being a pansy.”

  Sarah’s browbeaten face spoke volumes as she turned to the bottle in her father’s stiff hand. With a groan, she took it from him and pressed it to her lips, taking a swig.

  I couldn’t believe I’d put her in this position.

  “Yeah,” Jack nodded approvingly before he turned back to the movie. “That’s the girl I raised.”

  She glanced over searchingly at me.

  I understood her expression in an instant.

  Without moving another muscle in my body to attract his attention, my eyes quickly flicked from her to Jack, confirming that he was already caught up with his film, and I subtly nodded at her. Sarah quietly pushed the beer from her mouth back into the bottle and took it down from her lips.

  “Delicious,” she bitterly commented.

  Jack nodded. “Damn right it is.”

  He didn’t seem to care what she did with the beer from that point, so she quietly set it down against the hardwood floor and out of sight.

  I was still kicking my own ass in my head.

  Has this old bastard got me so goddamn on edge that I forgot Sarah can’t fucking have alcohol?

  I shook my head at myself.

  Two crises in under an hour…

  No matter what happened, one thing was for sure: I didn’t know how long we were going to last in this goddamn house.

  The worst part of this whole, awkward thing was that I loved me a good western. I’d grown up with only a couple of TV channels, and one of them had a real big thing about playing the classics.

  And I could always be found downright glued to the television screen when it was a western.

  The grittiness of those heroes – if you could even call some of them that – spoke to me. Those darkly fearless gunslingers were men, real men. They lived by their own code of honor, cleaned up the scraps of society, and always got the girl.

  Sometimes, they were just passing through.

  Others, they were down on their luck and pushed into a position to make a difference.

  Either way, they put down the filth.

  They brought order to lawless towns.

  It was a thankless, gritty job, but they were all man enough to rise to the challenge, do what nobody else would, and take the goddamn reins.

  Guess it’s no wonder that I became so heavily addicted to the life of a renegade biker.

  But it took sitting in my oldest enemy’s house, sipping his beer and silently watching a western with him to really make that connection.

  Funny, the things you learn from your foes.

  I actually recognized this one, from way back when. Hadn’t seen it in years. John Wayne plays an experienced, ruthless rancher taking the lead on driving a huge cattle herd across states for a big payout. But when his irrational and harsh decisions push his crew to mutiny, his adopted son takes over, and John Wayne chases after them with hired guns to take back what he thinks is his.

  While the credits rolled, I glanced over at Jack. Jack reminded me more than a little of Wayne’s character, but I wondered if we’d get our own happy little ending out of this one.

  Jack reached for his cane and climbed up out of his chair.

  Sarah looked over. “Need a hand, Dad?”

  “Unless you’re helping me bleed the lizard, then no,” he glowered at her. His stern eyes met mine and a small, twisted grin crossed his lips. “But I got your prissy boy here to put that apron on, so maybe he can help me take a piss.”

  I felt my jaw clench.

  “Do you really need another man’s help to take a leak, old timer?”

  Sarah cast me an angry look.

  Meanwhile, Jack chuckled.

  “’Course not.”

  Away he hobbled out of the den, heading off towards the bathroom.

  “Don’t egg him on,” Sarah grumbled.

  “With everything the old bastard’s put me through today so far, he definitely deserves worse potshots than that,” I insisted.

  She crossed her arms in defiance. “Don’t fuck this up for us, Hunter. We’re making progress.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Don’t fuck this up? Seriously? Are you shitting me right now?” I rose up from the couch. “Sarah, I’ve cooked for the man. I’ve cleaned for the man, I’ve watched a goddamn movie with him, sitting here pretending like he didn’t go out of his way to ruin my fucking life. I’ve been doing everything I can to appease him…”

  “You can’t expect it to work in under a day,” she frowned at me. “Give it time.”

  “Time? How much time?” I was struggling to keep my temper down, reminding myself that this is what Jack wanted. Nothing would please him more than us fighting, and I was determined to not give that to him. “I’m the president of a goddamn MC that’s gearing up to cross state lines and set up camp. How soon is e
nough, Sarah?”

  She pursed her lips angrily.

  Before we could continue, there was an angry roar from further into the house.

  “What have you done?!”

  Sarah and I shared a confused look.

  I helped her up out of the couch and followed the sound of the bitter cursing. It led me back to the kitchen, where Jack was grasping at his hair frantically over the hot sink.

  “You moron! You idiot! You stupid fucker!”

  That bitter hatred for this man, the hate that I’d bundled up and caged deep down in my chest, was already rattling against the bars again.

  “What are you yapping about?” I growled.

  He cast me a filthy look. “You’ve ruined them!

  “Ruined what? The cookware?”

  I glanced down at sink, filled with his heavy, black pans as they soaked in hot water. The damn things looked fine to me.

  “Goddammit…” Sarah muttered from behind.

  “What?” I threw my hands up in the air.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, lowering her face away. “Hunter… those are all cast iron.”

  “So?” I didn’t see what the big deal was.

  Jack merely shook his head, glaring at me.

  The old bastard was being so goddamn high and mighty, even condescending, that I wanted more than ever before to punch his lights out.

  “You can’t soak cast iron, Hunter,” she told me with a bitter chuckle on her breath, “because it’s made with fucking iron. In water, it rusts.”

  “Then how the fuck do you clean it?”

  “Don’t curse at me,” she snarled.

  “Carefully, you complete idiot,” Jack snarled at me. “This cast iron belonged to my parents! It’s been in the family for two generations already, and now you’ve gone and ruined it!”

  Oh, fuck.

  I thought back to all those photos…

  “Dad, you’re overreacting and we both know it,” Sarah snapped at him. “We’ll dry it off, wipe it all down with oil, and cure it in the oven. It’s not ruined, you’re just trying to scare him.”

  That’s when Jack turned on her.

  “Don’t you dare undermine me in my own house! If I say it’s ruined, then it’s ruined!” He glared at her. “Or have you forgotten your place?”