Madeline Sheehan - Unbeloved

Eva had changed all that. She’d changed a lot about the way things worked, and during it all had become more like a sister to me than my own had ever been.

“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to smile. “The little one is kicking, is all.”

Being eight months along in my pregnancy, it was easy to blame my moods on the baby, but Eva was far from gullible. With her eyes full of pity, she nodded and turned away. I did the same, my gaze seeking out the reason I was here, standing amongst a club full of criminals and their families.

Already looking in my direction, Jase’s smiling eyes met mine. When his gaze dropped to my swollen stomach, his smile turned to a rather devilish grin.

Even after nearly seventeen years together, it was still painfully apparent how Jason “Jase” Brady, a married man with children, had been able to convince the dutiful wife and mother I’d once been to become his “club whore.” So much so that all I had to do was close my eyes and I could once again hear the bells jingling on the door, feel the wooden floor bend and creak below my feet, hear my own voice call out as it had on that day so many years before . . .

**•

“Mornin’ Joey,” I had called out as I’d entered the neighborhood convenience store.

From behind the counter, Joe Weaver, a former classmate of mine, had glanced up from his Playboy magazine and flashed me a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth. “Mornin’, midget,” he’d said cheerfully. “You bring me any muffins today?”

“Sorry,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the medicine aisle. “Teg’s got the flu. Poor thing has been throwing up all night.”

Grabbing what I needed, I headed toward the counter and began pulling my money from my pocket.

“Pete home with her?” Joey asked.

I shook my head. “He’s over the road again, this time for a month.”

“Who’s he haulin’ for now?”

“Not sure,” I said, shrugging.

My marriage wasn’t a typical one. We were more like roommates than anything else, roommates who couldn’t be bothered with each other.

His job hauling freight cross-country gave us the luxury of living apart from each other while still appeasing our parents’ wishes: to raise our daughter together.

But Pete usually didn’t tell me what he was doing or where he was going unless it directly concerned me, and I didn’t care enough to ask.

“He’s with a smaller company now,” I added. “Hauling paper, I think.”

While ringing up my purchases, Joey nodded distractedly. “So, your folks got Teg?”

I snorted softly. The idea of my parents ever willingly helping me was laughable. On a good day they considered me an embarrassment, but on most days, a failure they wanted nothing to do with.

“She’s with Mary.”

At the mention of my older sister’s name, Joey grimaced, and my lips twisted as I fought the urge to laugh. Mary was no one’s favorite person. Like most people in Miles City, she was religious and a right-wing conservative, but she took it to another level entirely, talking down to people who didn’t share her viewpoints, incessantly preaching to anyone who would listen, and even those who wouldn’t. Needless to say, she wasn’t Miss Popularity, but she was the only real estate agent in town and so, whether they liked it or not, people were forced to interact with her.

“Poor kid,” Joey muttered, handing me my change. “Sick and forced to hang with Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”

“You gave me the wrong change,” I said, handing him back my receipt. “You still owe me three dollars, look—”

The shop’s doorbell jingled loudly, and I glanced over my shoulder half expecting to see Marty, the town drunk, stumble inside to beg for his morning freebies.

Instead, a young man dressed in military fatigues stepped inside the small shop. Carrying a large green duffel bag, he paused upon entering and pulled his kepi off his head as he did a visual sweep of the store. When his gaze reached me, my breath caught in my throat.

He was gorgeous. His eyes were a deep, brilliant shade of blue, his dirty-blond hair was cropped close to his head, and his features were hard and chiseled, tanned to a perfect golden hue. His figure tapered nicely from broad shoulders to trim hips. The man was absolutely gorgeous, and I was stunned.

Furthermore, I didn’t recognize him, and this was Miles City, Montana, a small town where everyone knew everyone. As far as I knew, we didn’t have any new arrivals.

“Bathroom?” He raised his eyebrows.

In answer, Joey pointed toward the back of the shop, and we both watched as he shouldered his duffel bag and started through the store.

“Stop droolin’, D.” Joey’s voice was pinched, as though he was trying not to laugh. “You’re lookin’ like a bug-eyed leprechaun. And it ain’t a good look for ya.”

My cheeks burning, I shook my head. “I was just wondering who he was, is all.”

“He’s one of Deuce’s. Transplant from the Wyoming Horsemen chapter, or so I heard. Name’s Jason Brady, and accordin’ to some of Deuce’s boys who work at the auto shop in town, he’s in the Marine reserves.”

Deuce’s boys.

Deuce, the president of our town’s local motorcycle club, was one of the most frightening yet intriguing men I’d ever met. And I used the term “met” very loosely; I’d had very little contact with the leader of the Hell’s Horsemen, only minor encounters here and there around town. Deuce was a very private person, but as far as I knew, he was a decent enough man.

Unlike his father, Reaper, the former club president, Deuce took take care of Miles City. He’d taken control of several failing businesses around town and brought them back from near bankruptcy, he constantly donated money to the public schools and library, and a few years back, when my parents’ neighbor had lost his wife to cancer and was about to lose his farm due to her exorbitant medical bills, it was Deuce who had picked up the tab.

Even so, there were rumors that Deuce was involved with business that danced around the law, but Deuce and his boys were good to us, so other than the rumors and the idle chitchat between the gossipmongers, usually no one gave it a second thought.

“Sell smokes here?”

Jason Brady emerged from the bathroom no longer looking like an American hero. Dressed in leather boots, leather pants, a tight black T-shirt, and his leather Hell’s Horsemen cut, he now looked like one of Deuce’s boys. Except he was hands down the most clean-cut biker I’d ever seen. And he appeared to smell good too.

But that was pure assumption on my part. Or maybe wishful thinking. Because for some reason, I really wanted to get close enough to give him a sniff.

“Name’s Brady,” he said, smiling over my head in Joey’s direction. “Jase Brady.”

“Joe Weaver.” Pointing at me, Joey said, “And this here’s little Dorothy Kelley Matthews, resident ginger midget.”

Jase’s friendly gaze dropped down to where I stood and he looked me over, an embarrassingly slow and thorough perusal of all five foot nothing of me, from my head to my toes and back up again.

I felt my face heat. Not only were my holey jeans and plain tee covered in the remnants from a full morning of cleaning, but my hair was piled on top of my head in a messy bun, and I was sweating from the midday heat.

“Nice meetin’ you, baby,” he said, his lips curving. The tip of his tongue appeared and he very deliberately ran it across his full bottom lip.

Then it wasn’t just my face overheating but my entire body. Feeling suddenly drugged and my thoughts muddled, I pressed my hand over my stomach and swallowed hard.

“You . . . too,” I whispered.