Recovery

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.