Brave as It (Hellions Ride On #7)

5. Emmalee

FIVE

EMMALEE

Life lessons with Emma: Fake it ’til you make it is bullshit, but sometimes necessary.

“Hello,” I answer my little flip phone on the third ring.

This is an adjustment. Per my instructions, I don’t use my smart phone from back in NC for any new people. It is only used to call Diem when I don’t use my laptop, and for my mother or the strangers to reach me. Any other calls or text go ignored.

As I travel, I grab these prepaid phones. Not sure of how long this will continue on, I gave up getting smart phones and stick with the cheap ones now. When I call Diem, I use WIFI and my laptop as much as possible, it makes using the filters easier.

Since I’ve finally found a place to stay for a bit, I do like having a local phone number. Less for anyone to look into if they had my NC number. I hate this flip phone, though. Texting is a nightmare, but at least most people I’m around now prefer to call over texting.

“Pipe busted at the Suds for Ya Duds spot,” Stone states. “Need ya to get over to clean it up. Racer flipped the shutoff valve. When you finish, hit him up to get the plumber in.”

This is my life.

For now, and for who knows how long.

Six months ago, I left Haywood’s Landing. I can’t say I haven’t looked back. In my mind, I’ve looked back over and over. I want to go back. God, I want to be with him, with Wesson, and Diem too. I shouldn’t have left in the first place. I should have stopped, thought things through, and found another way.

Instead, I listened to the caller and followed the damn instructions. Like a fool, I wait, even now, to understand what I’m doing. What comes next?

Lie after lie, I keep this whole thing away from them. The reality is I don’t want to be away from any of them. When I call Diem and he happens to be over there, she always finds a way for me to say hi. Each and every time I die a little more inside.

I can’t look at him.

Hearing his voice cuts me to the core. I want to tell him I never meant anything I said. I want to tell him I miss him. I want to tell him I love him.

I can’t though.

There is far too much at stake.

This rollercoaster ride I’m on is never ending. I keep waiting for answers, next steps, and I get nowhere.

Why can’t there be this clear-cut plan? Follow the steps, complete the tasks, and be free. I can do a job. I will work hard. Whatever will get this over fastest, I’ll do it. I’m not on my own timeline. They leave me waiting and stumbling along.

After traveling around Georgia, Alabama, and Florida, I finally settled in Crest, Florida four months ago. I’m not far from Saint Petersburg and Clearwater. When things feel overwhelming a quick drive has me on a beach listening to the sounds of the waves roll in.

While my first couple of months I spent on the road trying to find a place where I could get a job, start life, I avoided anything and everything biker. If it looked like a biker bar, I avoided, even if there was a now hiring sign. If it looked like a biker run town, I kept going.

My instructions are vague and precise at the same time. The ones they give me are exact, but in between is all a land of gray. Since the calls are not on a schedule and outside of the hand full of rules I have been given, I have to make this work for myself, I’m trying to play it smart. Pick stops safely and don’t spend too much money.

Hence, how I came to Florida and originally intended to avoid that motorcycle man lifestyle. Normalcy is safe, right? Find some middle-class suburb and blend in. Except I don’t want to be tracked. The only way for that to happen is to find a cash paying job and a place to stay that will take cash.

In today’s society that isn’t as easy as it sounds. Like a science experiment there are too many variables. This isn’t a formula, and I can simply put in the right amounts to create the concoction necessary. This is complete chaos. I’m falling deeper into the void of unknowns with every passing day.

It wasn’t long though, a thought hit me.

I know the loyalty in a motorcycle club runs deep. I’ve experienced the power of that devotion firsthand. There is no way, not then, not now, that I will risk having Wesson or the Hellions tied up in any of this. If I stay out of their territory, I should be clear of any connection to Wesson, or Busted as they know him in motorcycle club world. Another club though, will control the area they own. I can probably find a bar to work at that pays cash. As long as I play my cards smart and don’t slip up by referring to Busted or his brother, Kick, which is Diem’s man Colton, I think I can break ties with my life with the Hellions.

Road-names are unique to each man. Earned much like the patches on their cuts. There is a story behind each one. When I was in the hospital trying to heal, unable to really speak (or stay awake for long periods of time for that matter), Wesson would tell me each brother’s road-name and why they got that one. While most of them didn’t stick with me as far as the stories go, I know who is who, that’s what matters. Or mattered, right now I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back ever again.

The more time passes, the more things change. That is a truth bomb. The longer I stay away the harder it feels to fix this and go back.

The thing is, I know finding a place with a club presence is safe. People watch documentaries, read books, or watch glamorized shows that make bikers seem almost animalistic. The truth is there aren’t a safer group of men to be around. Most clubs, even the full-blown outlaw ones, live by their own code. That doesn’t promise me safety, but they protect their territory. Until I can sort out the depths of the threat, I need to be somewhere that has control by someone other than the people after me. It’s the only way I can stay alive until I can find the answers they seek.

Yes, hearing the words “property of” is hard to digest. If Dia hadn’t explained it to Diem and me, I’m not sure I would understand it. Assumptions are easy to make. It isn’t degrading, at least not in my experience, though. To be tagged is to be cloaked in the protection of the club.

More than that, I have found that being an ol’ lady isn’t the only thing a club protects. Their town, their territory, that is something they will die for. As long as I don’t cross the club, I can find safety in the mundane day to day life until I know what to do next.

Crest, Florida is a non-descript small suburb. I came here wanting to find a slightly cheaper hotel rate and ended up staying. Unlike the bigger cities, there aren’t the fancy name hotels with the elevators and safety measures. Until everything blew up with my dad, I never imagined staying anywhere that wasn’t a five-star resort. Diem and I lived that level of lifestyle. In an instant it all came to a head. I feel like I’m going to pay for the sins of my father for the rest of my life. Nothing I can do will get me out from the shadow of what was done.

Oasis Inn ended up being exactly what I needed and more. Again, something I never imagined. The motel is the traditional single building with access from the parking lot to the rooms. Eleven rooms, a reception area, and a pool pretty much make up the whole thing.

Normally, this is not a place I would choose to stay. I lived a life spoiled. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think everyone lived the way Diem and I did. I wasn’t a bitch about it either.

Life is a balance, and the scales are not tipping in my favor. They haven’t been in a long time.

One floor with doors on the outside so I can come and go without walking through the office area is dangerous as a single female, but the ability to take off on a whim is necessary. More importantly, they didn’t check my license, didn’t ask for a credit card, and don’t care what I’m running from. I pay by the week and wait. Yes, I have a credit card, one not tied to my old life, but I don’t know that I want the people on the other end of the line to track my spending. Hell, I’m not sure how much they follow me as it is, I don’t feel like they need to know when I buy tampons. If they want to track my cycle, let them dig in the fucking trash. The longer this goes on the more jaded I become.

The first week, I did everything with the card and cash provided to me. I guess the shock needed to wear off for me to realize that gave them more power over me being able to see what I spent their money on. Privacy isn’t available to me in many areas while I’m stuck waiting for them to tell me what comes next, but the ability to buy some things for myself matters. Maybe it’s independence or maybe it’s me trying to be smart, I don’t know anything other than I’m trying to limit the use of their card or my own for that matter.

My instructions were to get space and time between me and Haywood’s Landing. Change cars, pick a place to stay.

I thought answers would come quicker. They haven’t.

I can’t go to school so what is the next thing to do? Work.

Except I can’t have the Hellions find me which means no paper trail like a bank account or paycheck. Getting here, it all worked out.

I have a job. Luckily for me, it’s close. Therefore, when I can I walk. I like the sunshine and it isn’t far enough away to get sweaty even in the heat of the mid-day light.

Again, silly, I know, but if they want to track me, they can watch me walk. My car, I don’t know if it is bugged or has some device on it. Does it? Doesn’t it? Does any of it really matter anymore?

Am I in over my head? Absolutely.

There aren’t any amount of crime shows or documentaries to prepare me for how to save myself from myself. Afterall, my bad decision to even agree to this on day one is what landed me here.

I should have said no.

I could have said no … maybe, I don’t know. I play this over and over in my head. Did I make the right choice? Even when it’s over, I’m not sure I will actually have an accurate answer to this question.

I reacted. I didn’t think. I didn’t ask questions. My gut said follow the steps given.

I’ve been running on instinct ever since.

Arriving in Florida, it gave me the first bit of peace since leaving Haywood’s Landing. This place, in my regular life, I would have never agreed to shack up at.

It’s dangerous.

The doors can be broken into. No one will ask questions. No one will step in to help because it’s a mind your own business kind of place. It also is the perfect place for me to lay low until … well, until whatever comes next.

My gut said, calm down, ride it out here, until you can’t. I got a room at Oasis Inn, lucky number seven. Focused on settling in to make this stay last a little longer than my other places, I handled this differently. I paid for the room by the week. Feeling comfortable here, I decided to check out the surroundings.

One block away is a laundromat, Get the Funk Out . That’s where I first saw the sign.

NOW HIRING

I called the number on the sign.

He answered on the second ring. It was not kind. It was not inviting. It was a curt hello. I quickly learned; Stone Daniels isn’t one for idle chitchat I quickly learned. He isn’t one who is nice. Not that he is overly mean. Stone is Stone, I don’t think there is a way to define him. He is the president of the Sinister Sons MC. Something I didn’t know until I met him to get my first paycheck.

Yes, he hired me over the phone. The doors to all of the laundromats are on timers. Each place has a bathroom and janitor’s closet. The closet is secured with a doorknob that uses a code not a key. He gave me the code to get to supplies and a set of tasks. I completed them, put in my hours, and survived my first week in Crest. On Friday, Stone showed up to pay me. I saw the cut. Immediately I was on alert. They pay cash and didn’t ask me for anything other than my name.

My instincts said maybe this is a sign to stay in place. Everything fell into place easily.

Each facility has cameras that the Sinister Sons can access from their phones. While I’m sure they check in on things, no one has questioned my work. What started as me cleaning one has turned into me cleaning the three locations they own in the area.

Either someone called the number posted on the walls in each laundromat to report the water issues or one of the guys saw it on a random camera check. It doesn’t matter to me how they found it. I have work to do and this gives me overtime.

“I’ll go right over.” I begin moving around the small space of my hotel room to get my shoes.

“Thanks Emmalee. You might just be the best employee we have had since my sister Bristyl took off with her man.”

Before I can reply, he hangs up. The first couple of times he hung up without so much as a goodbye or fuck off irritated me. I kept taking it personally and turns out, it’s just Stone Daniels. His brothers aren’t what I would consider friendly, but they do have enough courtesy to say goodbye. As for his sister, I haven’t met her, yet.

Stone Daniels has two brothers and one baby sister. Only she’s not actually a baby. She’s a grown woman with a husband I hear. They say she lives in Georgia. If she has come to visit, I don’t know. I don’t involve myself with my boss, his family, or his club. I do my job, get paid, and fly under the radar as much as possible. Racer and Hunter are Stone’s brothers. They pop in and out like Stone. Sometimes they bring me the envelope with my weekly earnings’ other times it’s Stone. Never fails to be in my hand by noon every Friday and it’s always one of the Daniel’s actual brothers, not the club ones.

I’ve seen them ride in with the Sinister Sons to bring me my income, but my interaction has been with Stone and family only. I prefer it to be honest. While the Sons are intimidating, that isn’t my issue. As ridiculous as it is, my problem is I don’t want to engage with any man even in a casual conversation.

The man I want to talk to is back home wondering why I went from the Emmalee he knew and loved into a snotty bitch overnight. Okay, by now he’s done wondering. He’s probably as mad as a raging bull with me. I hate myself for hurting him like I did. And there isn’t a single man around me that will fill the Wesson size hole in my heart.

The Sinister Sons though, no one rides through here. Not even passing through. I don’t ever see another cut around anywhere. It’s always one of them.

To me, I have found safety.

They won’t let another club come in, nor will they let the likes of O’Leary come around either. Not because of some loyalty to me, they have no clue who I am, rather to keep control of the area. Which is good. The Sons need to stay in control.

Knowing I can go to work without having to completely watch my back every second gives me a peace I haven’t felt since leaving Haywood’s Landing. As long as I stick to their spots, I’m safe.

Not wanting Stone to feel the need to call a second time, I ready and rush out the door. This job is beneath anything I ever thought I would do.

My mom used to sign every birthday card to me: remember you are destined for greatness.

Once upon a time I believed it.

I wanted to cure cancer. Before things went straight to Hell, I applied to Duke University and got accepted as a transfer student. I have my associate’s in science degree. Funny, I couldn’t focus to write unless it was about the cellular and molecular function of something. And math, my goodness do I hate math. Outside of how much money do I have and how much am I going to spend, I didn’t care. Unless it was the formulas to create a chemical compound that would become medicine.

Goals. I had them.

Big ones.

Small ones too. I wanted to find love.

I had it and let it go.

I guess I accomplished that goal, meeting Wesson.

Since being shot, my only goal is to survive.

When life is literally hanging in the balance it changes perception of what matters.

People matter. Family matters. Protecting the ones you love … matters most.

Staying away, I protect them all.

If only I knew exactly what I was protecting them from.