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  RECOVERY (Disciples Motorcycle Club Romance #2)

  Copyright © 2014 ABIGAIL STONE

  All rights reserved.

  [email protected]

  This novella works as a standalone book but is intended as a sequel to Abigail Stone's best-selling novel Save Me. For a better introduction to the Disciples Motorcycle Club and the characters in this book, you can purchase Save Me here, available in kindle format or in print.

  This book contains adult themes, explicit language, and sexual situations that are not appropriate for minors. Reader discretion is advised.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters are a product of the authors imagination.

  Any similarities to any person living or dead is purely a coincidence.

  All song lyrics are property of the Ramones and as much as she might want to, Abigail Stone does not own them.

  This book is dedicated to Adam, for the night in the firebird, the day on the beach, and the evening in jail—keep living the life, baby!

  ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

  (Orange County, California – just after midnight)

  Chase was pacing.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea man?”

  The house they were staked out in front of was easily worth a million dollars. It was the kind of place that Orange County practically barfed up – ridiculously large, expensive, and gaudy. The driveway in front of the home was large and winding and in front of it, two classic Choppers sat untouched, glimmering in the moonlight.

  “Yeah,” Leo whispered, spitting into the grass. They were hiding in all black behind a large oak tree in the distance, having parked their own bikes a few blocks down the road. The rest of the boys were playing watch-dog while Chase and Leo scoped out the scene. “This guy is a weekend warrior. No one we have to worry about,” he finished, slapping Chase on the shoulder.

  Then, he sauntered out from amongst the trees, squaring his shoulders and approaching the home just as the automatic lights above the garage flashed on, signaling movement.

  “What if he’s home?” Chase yelled, still behind the tree. “L!”

  But Leo had already made up his mind. With a crowbar in hand, he approached the front of the million dollar home with a familiar confidence in his strut. Then, in one swift motion, he arched the large metal bar above his head, bringing it crashing down against the security system that protected the mansion from intruders.

  Chase braced himself, sure that an alarm was about to signal, but it never did. After a few minutes, he stepped out from behind the tree, pacing inside the dark home behind Leo and shutting the door quietly behind them.

  Leo whistled.

  “Some place,” he said, running his hand over the expensive furniture in the living room. He made a beeline for the basement, signaling for Chase to follow him.

  “How do you know this guy anyway?” Chase asked, following Leo down the carpeted stairs and reaching up to turn on a light.

  “Oh you know,” Leo began, stretching his arms. He reached inside a fridge, pulling out a beer and cracking it open. “Let’s just say he’s a friend of a friend.”

  A plasma screen TV sat undisturbed on an entertainment center, surrounded by movies. An overstuffed leather coach circled it, and a coffee table acted as a divide. Across from it there was a retro looking bar area, accented by band posters and motorcycle paraphilia, which hung on the walls.

  “Well you definitely weren’t kidding,” Chase continued. “This guy is harmless.”

  Chase picked up a picture of a smiling man holding a golf club. He had to have been at least fifty-five and had “suburban dad” written all over him. Chase figured he must have picked up his interest in bikes during some type of midlife crisis.

  “Told you,” Leo said, nudging Chase on the shoulder. “We have nothing to worry about.”

  Chase watched as Leo approached a large gun cabinet, shaking on the lock.

  “This guy is a huge collector,” he called over his shoulder, “maybe we should forget the bikes. I’m thinking bigger than that.”

  Chase wasn’t following.

  “You know,” Leo continued, turning around to look at him, “I bet he has at least ten to twenty in there. You know how much we can get for those?”

  Chase nodded, furrowing his brows. Leo was right. The profit they could turn on a few firearms would be a hell of a lot more than the ten grand they were quoted for the Choppers, and breaking the lock on the cabinet would certainly be a lot easier than hotwiring the bikes.

  “Alright,” Chase said, making his way back up the stairs. Leo followed him, turning off the light and shutting the door.

  “But not today. We need to plan this. Look, you already broke the guy’s security system. He’s going to be on guard. Let’s give it a few weeks, let things die down a bit.”

  Leo agreed. After making sure they properly covered their tracks, they made their way outside, through the tree’s – towards their bikes and the rest of the Disciples.

  NOT MY PLACE

  "Don't wanna be a working stiff

  lose my identity

  cause when it comes

  to working 9 to 5

  There ain't not place for me

  ain't my reality, to me."

  ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

  The bistro was packed from wall to wall with patrons. Wine glasses clanked over the sound of old friends reuniting, children misbehaving much to the dismay of their mothers, and business men discussing mergers and deadlines. At a tiny isolated table just outside the jam-packed restaurant, on the patio, Layla sat slouched with her head in her hands. She idly poked at her Cesar salad with her fork, tossing a crouton from one edge of her ceramic plate to the other. She looked down at her watch. It was just after five o'clock. Her agent, a wiry man named Ronald, was late by over an hour, but Layla had stopped counting after forty-five minutes. She took a sip of her wine, running a manicured hand through her tousled red hair.

  “This seat taken?” a hoarse voice questioned from above her.

  Layla looked up, squinting and shielding her eyes from the sunlight. She sighed, shaking her head. It was Ronald. His suit was wrinkly and half steamed, his patterned tie crooked and hastily knotted. He sported a small mustard stain on one cuff, a remnant of the hot dog he had indulged in for lunch. It was obvious that he had tried to wash the stain off, but he had only made it worse in the process. He looked like the manager of a convenience store, not the agent to dozens of young celebrities. He was the definition of frumpy, and Layla couldn’t help but cringe.

  She watched through bloodshot eyes as Ronald attempted to straighten himself, taking a seat in a small chair across from her. His round stomach bulged out over the leather belt that had been strung through the loops in his khaki pants. His tucked in dress shirt buckled open around his gut. Beads of sweat trickled down his wrinkled forehead, finding shelter in his bushy eyebrows. He wiped at it, drawing in a sharp breath as a bit of flem lodged in his throat. He coughed and sputtered, patting his chest. His eyes were red and unfocused and he smelled heavily of liquor.

  So this is what I'm paying him for, Layla thought bitterly.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking up at her over his wire rim glasses. Layla shrugged, unsure as to whether he was apologizing for coughing in her face or being late.

  “Traffic was...let’s just say not excellent.”

  He set his briefcase, an outdated model, on the small table in front of him, knocking a folded napkin to the ground in the process. Layla moved her plate and wine glass off to the side, giving him room.

  Didn't he know how ridiculous he looked?

  “What else is new,” Layla whispered, looking out over the steel fencing that separated the restaurants patio from the rest of Hollywood Drive. She wat
ched as Ronald pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase, setting them down in front of her.

  Layla shielded her eyes from the sunlight with one hand, paging through each document with the other. Each piece of paper said the same thing. She was being fired. Not laid off, not let go on temporary leave. Fired.

  “What the fuck is this?” Layla asked, looking up at Ronald.

  He was jittery and unfocused and it was obvious that he didn't want to be having the discussion any more than Layla did. He straightened his tie, clearing his throat and nodding at a passing waitress.

  “Ronald?” Layla insisted. “Explain this!”

  He looked like a deer caught in head lights.

  “They want to terminate all of your contracts,” Ronald said evenly, pointing a calloused finger at the words contract termination on each piece of paper.

  Layla sighed, rolling her eyes. He had a pension for stating the obvious.

  “I know that, but why?”

  Ronald chuckled, shaking his head and pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his too-small sports coat. He shook one out, reaching forward to light the end of it with the flame from a candle that sat on the fence. Layla swatted at a mosquito on her arm, cursing under her breath. They were bad this year. She had already killed three of them since she had been seated.

  “Do you really need to ask that Layla?” Ronald questioned.

  “You've been late to shoot almost every day this week and when you do arrive, clients report that you are either too drunk or—” he paused, flipping through the paperwork. He leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Too high to work,” he finished.

  “And don't even get me started on this...”

  Layla watched as Ronald waved a hand over her appearance in passing.

  “This?”

  He nodded, taking a sip of Layla’s untouched ice water without even asking. He fished out the lemon that floated in the middle of the glass, commenting on how much it bothered him when restaurants added unnecessary “decals” to water. Layla watched him, disgusted, but she didn’t object.

  “You've let yourself go,” Ronald continued. “The clients words, not mine.”

  Layla scoffed. Ronald, of all people, had a lot of nerve critiquing anyone else’s appearance. She looked at her distorted reflection in her wine glass. Her hair was a little on the greasy side and the bags under her eyes made her appear especially exhausted and malnourished, but she was still light years ahead of someone like Ronald in the looks department. She took a bite of her salad, chewing but not really tasting it. Ronald exhaled a thin ring of smoke.

  “Is there anything I can get you guys?” A bubbly waitress questioned, pausing in front of Layla with a tray full of food perched slightly off balance on the palm of her hand. She shifted her weight, sliding half of the tray onto her shoulder blade for extra support.

  Layla shook her head.

  “No, thank you,” Ronald said.

  Then, he called after her.

  “Maybe just a water! No lemon!”

  The waitress nodded, pushing through a crowd of people and sliding inside the busy restaurant just as the glass doors that led to the patio swung open.

  “Do you have to do that?” Layla asked.

  Ronald furrowed his brows, clumsily snapping his briefcase shut and sliding it in the space between the table and his feet.

  “What?”

  Layla rolled her eyes. He was so oblivious, to the point of being childlike. She really could only stomach his presence in small dosages.

  “Never mind.”

  She coughed into the crook of her elbow, reaching up to push her aviator sunglasses down onto the crook of her nose as a gaggle of teenage girls approached in the distance. Ronald looked over his shoulder at them as they entered a small boutique across the street from the restaurant.

  “See? That's what I mean,” he said, turning his attention back to Layla.

  “You hide from fans, you show up late to rehearsals, you don't put any effort into your appearance–”

  Layla had enough. She tuned him out, focusing instead on the conversations going on around her. A mother and father fought under their breath over a plate of steaming calamari about enrolling their son in an elite private school. A college-aged girl a few tables away sat in front of a laptop, smiling and waving at someone on the other end of the screen. A child no older than three ran between each row of tables, laughing as his mother tried her best to keep up with him. He stumbled to the ground, a loud shriek of pain escaping his lips, his laughs replaced by cries as his mother inspected the damage the concrete pavement had done on his knees. Layla noticed everything. She was anything if not observant.

  “I get the feeling that you aren't really listening to me,” she heard Ronald finally say.

  Layla nodded, taking a final sip of her wine. He was finally getting the hint.

  “I better go,” she said, standing up. She grabbed her designer purse, sliding it over her shoulder.

  “Wait!” Ronald called after her.

  Layla turned around to look at him as he scurried to his feet, grabbing hold of his briefcase and stuffing the paperwork on the table inside of it. He turned sideways, his large belly rubbing up against the backs of annoyed patrons as he squeezed past them.

  “Excuse me, excuse me, sorry,” he said as they turned around to glare at him.

  One man flat out told him to watch what he was doing, but Ronald remained unscathed.

  “I need to know what your next move is,” he told Layla, attempting to catch his breath.

  Layla cringed at the lingering stares people were beginning to give them. Ronald never did seem to have a problem causing a scene in public, a fact that never ceased to annoy her.

  “Well right now? I'm going home.”

  After paying for her wine and half eaten salad, Layla made her way out onto the street and to her car, a sparkling black Range Rover. Ronald followed her with haste, annoying more patrons in the process as he squeezed past them. Layla unlocked her car with a button on her keychain, climbing inside and starting up the engine. The radio blared loudly as it came to life. She reached forward to turn it off, resting her head on the leather steering wheel. Ronald was knocking angrily on her window, insisting that she open the door.

  Layla sighed, looking up at him. A few people had slowed to a stop on the sidewalk behind him, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. A few even had their cellphones held out in front of them and were taping the ordeal. Layla cringed. They clearly recognized her, and the last thing she needed was a TMZ smear campaign.

  “Okay!” Layla exclaimed. “Just, get back so I can open my door.”

  Ronald nodded, stepping back hesitantly. Then, Layla shifted into reverse, stepping hard on the gas and causing the vehicle to roll backwards, away from Ronald and the SUV parked in front of her. As Ronald jumped into the road, throwing his body in front of the path Layla needed to take to make her escape, she pressed down harder on the gas, sending the car further backwards and nearly colliding with incoming traffic. People honked and yelled at her. Ronald stared on in shock.

  But Layla didn’t care. She was done being controlled by a man that could barely keep himself together. She pulled forward on the clutch, putting the car into drive and speeding down the road, past Ronald and the crowd that had gathered around him. About a block away, Layla looked into her rearview mirror with a smile. Relief settled over her. She had no intention of seeing Ronald ever again, and now that her career seemed to be in complete ruins, she didn’t see any point in staying in Hollywood either.

  With a sigh, Layla turned her attention back to the stretch of road in front of her. Her options were endless. She had a full tank of gas, a stomach full of wine, and the newfound confidence that came with standing up for herself. A highway entrance ramp loomed a few feet ahead to the right, a large green sign illustrating all the different cities she could escape to if she was brave enough.

  Taking a chance, Layla signaled
that she was turning. Then, she veered onto the highway before she could second guess herself. She was going somewhere Ronald would never be able to find her.

  Somewhere no one would.

  NEEDLES & PINS

  "Let her go ahead

  Take this love instead

  And one day she will see

  Just how to say please

  And get down on her knees

  Oh that's how it begins

  She'll feel those needles and pins

  Hurtin' her, hurtin' her."

  ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

  The road that led up to the dilapidated cabin was long and winding. It had begun to rain and Layla turned on her wipers, her headlights shining against the freshly wet pavement. She pulled off of the gravel and onto the hill that curved slightly upwards, a good few feet away from the tiny structure. After parking in a dense patch of trees, Layla stepped out onto the muddy grass, hiking her bag up over her shoulder as she descended through the marked trees that led her straight to the cabin.

  Finally, Layla spotted it, feeling a wave of familiarity wash over her. She descended up the creaking front steps, pushing open the front door and carefully stepping over the trash and empty liquor bottles that covered the termite-chewed floor. I’ll get around to cleaning up, Layla told herself. It wasn’t her mess, but it wasn’t her cabin either, and she felt an odd sense of obligation to make the place livable again. She closed the front door, lighting a candle on the table and opening the blinds, cracking the rain streaked window just enough to let in a breeze.

  Layla had been coming to the cabin for six months. It was the one place she felt most safe. The most at peace with herself. There was something about the moss covered trees and isolation that she could lose herself in. She wasn't Layla the actress here. She was just Layla. The person.

  It was an escape, but not in the way that drugs were for her. Layla sat down at the table, pulling her wet hair up into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Thunder boomed from somewhere off in the distance. Layla jumped. She took in her surroundings, looking at each photograph that hung on the walls around her.