Edge Of Tomorrow (Arrow's Edge MC Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  EDGE OF TOMORROW

  COPYRIGHT

  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

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY FREYA BARKER

  Copyright © 2020 Margreet Asselbergs as Freya Barker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in used critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses as permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, mentioning in the subject line: “Reproduction Request”

  at [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 9781988733548

  Cover Design:

  Freya Barker

  Cover Image:

  Jean Maureen Woodfin (JW Photography and Covers)

  Cover Models:

  Darrin James Dedmon & Baby John

  Editing:

  Karen Hrdlicka

  Proofing:

  Joanne Thompson

  Formatting:

  CP Smith

  CHAPTER 1

  Lisa

  “DON’T FORGET YOUR lunch!”

  Ezrah—who bailed out of the car the moment the wheels stopped turning—grinds to a halt halfway to the front door of the school and comes running back. I lean over to hand him his lunch bag through the passenger window.

  “Best not be getting another call from the principal’s office today, boy,” I warn him.

  All I get is a grunt in response. Dear Lord, but that child tests my patience.

  Ever since we found a home in Durango two years ago, my grandson has gone from a timid, beaten down little boy to this mouthy child with an attitude that won’t fit through the door. He never fails to find an argument, it doesn’t matter who’s across from him. Yesterday he went head-to-head with his teacher during history class. Argued with her when she claimed slavery was abolished in the US since 1865. Ezrah disagreed. Loudly.

  My grandson was not wrong, given that up until two years ago we lived in service to a family of white supremacists, but calling his teacher bat-shit crazy wasn’t the right way to convey the message. I ended up having to pick him up from the principal’s office, and back at home had Trunk sit him down for a good talk.

  Ezrah looks up to Trunk, our resident child psychologist and a black man. My poor grandchildren haven’t really known any father figures—anyone to take guidance from—until we came here. Of course, in an MC testosterone runs rampant, and although all good, decent men, they’re not known for their tact. My grandson emulates what he sees.

  I watch him run to the door and slip inside.

  “Nana, is Ezrah in trouble?”

  I turn around in my seat and look at my baby, my Kiara.

  “Not if he behaves. Now, let’s get you off to school.”

  Kiara just started first grade this past August, but not at the same school as Ezrah. I did that on purpose. The boy is so protective of his sister, she wouldn’t get a chance to forge friendships of her own, which is important. She’s surrounded by boys at home, she needs some space to develop her own person.

  I park at her school, not ready to let her walk in by herself. She’s my baby; I practically raised her from birth, after their momma disappeared.

  I was sixteen when my daughter Sunny was born, and head over heels for her father, a twenty-year-old neighborhood punk named James Weston. She’d been an easy child and our life in the tight, one-bedroom apartment, on the wrong side of town, had felt like a dream come true. Until James was killed in a drive-by shooting that riddled our small apartment with bullets when Sunny was only three months old.

  Life wasn’t so idyllic after that, but I managed—even without a high school diploma—to keep us afloat. Despite my determination to give my daughter a better life than mine, she fell in with the wrong crowd. She got pregnant at nineteen, had Ezrah at twenty, and by the time she disappeared at just twenty-four, she had two kids and no clue who their fathers were. She was found dead of an overdose two months later.

  I’d been only forty at the time and left with a four-year-old and an infant to raise.

  “Have a good day in school, baby,” I tell Kiara, when she turns at the door and tries to fit her small arms around my waist.

  “Bye, Nana.”

  She lifts her face for a kiss and I pull the door open for her, scooting her inside before returning to my car. It’s starting to rain again.

  Normally, I do groceries with the aid of one of the club’s prospects to help me haul them, but with this impending thunderstorm I don’t want to go out more than is necessary. I’m only two blocks from the grocery store, so I decide to get them now before the weather gets worse.

  By the time I pile my second grocery cart high, I can see conditions haven’t improved outside. The skies are dark and I can see the wind has picked up. Once I cash out, one of the baggers is kind enough to wheel the second cart to my car, despite the steady rain coming down. I slip him a few dollars for his help before loading up my little Toyota to the brim with bags.

  I’m a drowned rat when I get behind the wheel, sitting in a puddle. The hair I get up an hour early every morning to subdue into smooth waves springs out in rebellious little curls I’ll have to live with the rest of the day. Curls now, untamed frizz when it dries. Lovely.

  A burst of lightning followed almost immediately by a loud crack of thunder rattles me when I turn up Junction Creek Road. The rain is now coming down in sheets and my windshield wipers work hard to give me at least a glimpse at the road ahead. At some point, halfway up the mountain, a river of rainwater is coming down the road and—afraid my little car will start hydroplaning—I quickly pull off onto the shoulder. Better to wait it out.

  I’ve sat here for a few minutes when my phone starts ringing in my purse. It’s the garage.

  “Hi.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Brick barks and instantly my hackles go up.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  Brick joined the Arrow’s Edge MC around the same time I started working for them. He runs the garage up at the compound. A rugged, rough around the edges, but at times kind man who seems to have infinite patience for the boys, but none for me. Sometimes I think he’s doing some kind of penance, looking out for me, because he certainly doesn’t seem happy about it.

  Not that I ever asked for anything, he just seems to feel the need to jump in and rescue me. I can’t lie; there’ve been times I would�
��ve been up shit creek without a paddle if not for him stepping in. Like when Ezrah busted open his head and I ended up in the hospital with him without insurance. Brick walked in, handed over his credit card, and told me to put a sock in it when I objected.

  I think he sees me as some kind of charity case.

  “You left two hours ago, it normally takes you half an hour tops to run the kids to school, and the weather is shit. For all I know you’re in a goddamn ditch somewhere,” he grumbles.

  I roll my eyes but realize he can’t see that.

  “I pulled off to the side to wait out the storm. The road is a bit of a mess.”

  “Where?”

  “Halfway up Junction. I think the rain is getting a little lighter, I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’m fine,” I snap, but the next thing I know the line is dead.

  See? It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. I’m not some wilting flower. I’ve seen and been subjected to more shit in my life than many ever will, but still he acts like I can’t take care of myself.

  The fact I’ve developed a thing for the man over the past two years doesn’t exactly help.

  He still pisses me off.

  Brick

  Damn stubborn woman.

  She nips at my hand every goddamn time I reach one out.

  So pigheadedly independent.

  “Shilah, need you to come with me.”

  The young prospect, or cub as they’re called in this club, wipes his hands on a rag and jogs after me to the truck.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Picking up Lisa, she’s stuck on the mountain in this weather. You’re gonna drive her car home.”

  I crank the heat in the cab of the truck and drive out of the gates.

  “There.”

  Shilah points at Lisa’s piece of shit car, barely visible through the windshield. I drive past, hit up the first driveway I come across, and turn back up the mountain. I pull up beside her car and tell Shilah to get out.

  “Get her in here. Pull her the hell out if you need to,” I grumble, even though I know he’d never do that.

  I watch as he opens her driver’s side door and gestures at the truck. I can’t see her reaction, but I can guess. The moment she gets out, her angry dark eyes meet mine, but she climbs into the truck. I try not to notice the way her clothes look—drenched and plastered to her body—as she buckles in, her generous mouth pressed into a tight line.

  “Your hair looks nice.”

  Don’t ask me what makes me say that. The only excuse I have is I’m trying hard not to check out the hard nipples visible, even through the sweater she’s wearing, so I focused on her hair. I think this is the first time I’ve seen it natural and I like it.

  “Save it. The hair’s a mess and you know it,” she snaps, keeping her head averted as she looks out the side window.

  I figure it’s better just to keep my mouth shut, until I let Shilah pull her car out in front of me and see the back of her car packed with grocery bags.

  “Groceries? Why would you go—”

  She holds a hand to my face, effectively silencing me.

  “Just don’t, Brick.” Her voice sounds tired, weary, and instead of tearing a strip off her for going to the store without help, I shut my mouth and put the truck in gear.

  Back at the compound, Shilah is already unloading the groceries as I pull up right outside the clubhouse so she can get out without getting wet. The moment she unclips the seat belt I reach over and touch her arm.

  “I’ll go pick up the kids this afternoon.”

  She turns to me, a little smile on her lips but she keeps her eyes down.

  “Thanks, Brick, but I’m sure the storm will have blown over by then.”

  “For crap’s sake, woman, would you let someone lend a hand from time to time? You’re plum worn-out ‘cuz you’re too stubborn to accept any help.”

  So much for my good intentions.

  “I’m fine. I do fine by myself.”

  “I ain’t debating that, and if it was just me I wouldn’t argue at all—I know you can barely stand to be around me—but plenty of other folks have offered and you turn us all down. Don’t know if you noticed, but being family is a huge part of being part of an MC. We have each other’s backs.”

  “Good for you,” she spits, getting out of the truck before turning to face me. “I’m not part of any MC, I’m just the cook.”

  With that she throws the door shut and stomps into the clubhouse. I curse under my breath and put the truck in gear, pulling it up to the garage.

  That afternoon I watch her climb into her wreck of a car and head back down the mountain to pick her kids up from school.

  She probably already has something going for dinner, which she cooks for anywhere from six to nine kids and between six and a dozen adults. It all depends what is going on, and who is pulling up a chair at any given meal. Club events, holidays, cookouts, there are even more mouths to feed. On top of that she cleans, does laundry, and has her own place behind the clubhouse to maintain. Sure, she gets help from the kids, but sometimes I wonder if that’s not more of a headache than it’s worth.

  Seven days a week, and as far as I know, she’s barely had a single day off since she came here. From what little I know, she’s been looking after others her entire life. That’s gotta change. I’m going to have to have a word with Ouray.

  With Shilah finishing up the brake job we were working on, I head inside to catch Ouray before Lisa gets back.

  I find him in his office.

  “Got a minute?”

  He drops his pen and leans back in his chair.

  “Sure. Sit.”

  I take a seat across from him but then don’t know where to start.

  “It’s about Lisa.” Ouray folds his arms over his chest and waits me out. Typical Ouray. “She’s tired. She needs a break.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No, and that’s the problem. I can see it in her, Chief, she’s worn but she’d never ask anything for herself.”

  He leans forward, his forearms on the desk, hands folded.

  “What would you like me to do? Think I haven’t offered her time off? Most she was ever willing to take was a weekend and she ended up back in the kitchen by Sunday afternoon. I can hardly force her to take time.”

  Trunk walks in, stops, and looks from Ouray to me and back.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No,” Ouray says, just as I tell Trunk, “Yes.”

  The asshole grins wide and pulls up a chair. Last thing I need is our resident psychologist to sit in on a conversation I’m already regretting.

  “Brick here is worried about Lisa.”

  Trunk turns to me, his eyebrow raised.

  “Shee-it. About fucking time, brother.”

  “Jesus,” I grumble, standing up. “The woman could use some time off, that’s all. You idiots wanna make more outta that, do it on your own damn time.”

  I turn for the door and almost run into the subject of conversation, and she’s not happy.

  “Lisa…” But she’s already moving down the hall.

  I want to go after her but Trunk grabs my arm.

  “Brother, word to the wise,” he shares. “Glad as fuck to see you’re pulling your head outta your ass, but that woman is an uphill battle. Think Mount Everest.”

  I pull out of his hold.

  “Thanks, fucking Ann Landers, but I’m just worried she’s gonna keel over on the job one day. Then where’d we be?”

  I walk out of there, but not fast enough to miss Ouray’s comment.

  “Goddamn it, we’re heading for another round of drama around here.”

  Jesus, these guys are worse than a fucking quilting bee.

  I find Lisa busy in the kitchen. Ezrah and Kiara are sitting at the table having a snack.

  “I’m busy, Brick,” she says, her back to me. I lean my hip against the counter beside her.
r />   “You’re not Superwoman, Lisa.”

  “I know that,” she hisses, glaring at me, but her eyes are shiny.

  Fuck, is she gonna cry?

  Deciding whether to grab the tissues, or run for the nearest exit, my phone rings. The perfect distraction; I don’t even bother checking before I answer.

  “Yeah.”

  There’s a heavy silence, and then a painfully familiar voice.

  “Dad?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lisa

  “NEED A HAND?”

  Lissie, Yuma’s wife and a rare friend to me, walks into the kitchen where I’m struggling to pull the roast out of the industrial-sized oven.

  I’m a strong woman, always have been, but lately it’s like my energy saps at double the rate. My arms feel weak and I don’t trust myself to lift the large Dutch oven onto the stainless steel counter.

  “Yeah. Take a towel and grab the other side of this? Damn thing’s so heavy.”

  Together we manage to hoist it up on the counter. Lissie lifts the lid and peeks inside.

  “Oh my God, that smells so good.”

  “You hanging around for dinner? I’ve got plenty.”

  Her husband, Yuma, is in a club meeting and their adopted son, Jesse, wanted to hang with the boys. As a result the whole family dropped in, including four-month-old baby, Lettie, named after Momma, who ruled the roost here before she passed away last year.

  “You sure? Jesse would love to. He says he misses your cooking.”

  I knew Jesse as Thomas who, along with his big brother, Michael, was one of the boys who were being groomed by the Hinckle family to be part of the new American Nationalist League’s militia.

  When I took the job with the Hinckle family as their cook and housekeeper six years ago, I had no idea what I’d been getting myself into. I had just found out Sunny was dead, leaving me with then four-year-old Ezrah, and Kiara had been an infant. I was desperate to find something that would keep a roof over our heads and food on our table, and didn’t look as closely as I should have at my new employers. By the time I realized what I’d stepped into was nothing more than modern-day slavery, it was too late.

  Margaret, one of the Hinckle daughters, made it very clear to me she wouldn’t think twice slicing my nappy mongrel kids’ necks if I stepped out of line. I had no doubt she would.