Origin of Jewel (The Restless Kings Motorcycle Club Book 3) Read online

  Origin of Jewel

  Restless Kings MC

  T. Ralston

  Copyright © 2021 T. Ralston

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798777406163

  Cover design by: T. Ralston

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Trigger warnings

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Restless Kings Motorcycle Club

  About The Author

  Acknowledgement

  Trigger warnings

  This book includes graphic depictions of domestic abuse (in the past), gun violence, violence, post-traumatic stress disorder, and sexually explicit scenes.

  Prologue

  Jewel- the last four years

  A man approaches the stoop I’ve perched myself on for the last few hours. I took off when my mom and dad started fighting. I ran all the way here, where my energy disappeared, and I collapsed on the steps in front of this brick home. I’ve been here crying for so long I hadn’t even recognized the darkness taking over for the daylight. I should go back home.

  “Hello, little girl. What are you doing here?” His long fingers brush over my cheekbone. “And why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?”

  “No. I’m okay.” I move to stand up, but he doesn’t give me any extra space so I crash into his chest and fall back down to my butt.

  “Where do you live? I’ll have someone take you home.”

  “No thank you. I can get home by myself.” If he just moves I can get to my feet and walk back home. It’s a little farther than I’d like to walk, but I can make it.

  “You’re too pretty to be crying like this, and too young to be walking by yourself,” the man says. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come inside and warm up, and in an hour I’ll take you home, okay?”

  One hour inside by the fire turns into two as the opulent wealth woos me. He has very tall ceilings and so many compliments that he gives to me like medicine. I thought it was a balm, smoothing over my insecurities and healing them, but instead his compliments are like heroin- addicting. He sits in his chair while I sit on the floor closest to the fire. He tells me his name is Alec, and I tell him I’m only seventeen, but that doesn’t matter to a man like Alec.

  Alec has money. Big, old money. Money that’s been passed down through his family for so long no one would ever be able to pinpoint where it started. He has nice cars and a fancy watch on his wrist, peeking out of the sleeve of his suit jacket. His fingers are always reaching for me, stroking my hair and wiping away the tears when they fall.

  Alec says things like, “Little girl, you should be taken care of. You deserve the world. Tears should never even have a chance to appear in those pretty eyes.”

  And when I hear that, it makes my heart beat faster. Alec cares enough to notice me, to offer me a ride home, to bring me into his home to warm up. No one has ever cared for me like that before.

  “Would you let me take care of you? Would you let me show you how a princess should be treated?”

  My stomach says something about this isn’t right. My insides are churning and I’m hanging somewhere between too terrified to speak and too terrified not to. So I tell him what he wants to hear. “Of course I would. What girl doesn’t want to be a princess?”

  “Do I scare you?”

  In every part of my body. But I don't say that because I’m afraid of what might happen if I say the wrong thing. I don’t want him to take away the sweet words he’s giving me. Instead I say, “Nope.”

  Alec asks me questions about my parents, my siblings, my grandma, my school, my dreams- and he listens. He hears every word I say and seeing that encourages me to say more, to tell him more. So I tell him everything. Then he leans closer and asks me, “Do you have any secrets? Something dark and depraved you’ve never told anyone before?”

  I tell him the truth about my family and how angry I’ve been at my parents for a long time. I tell myself that the sickness in my guts is because I’m not used to someone being interested in what I have to say, that it has nothing to do with him but it’s all about my lack of experience with older men, especially ones with money.

  Every time he tells me how pretty I am, I lean in, ready to hear more, begging him to shower me in praise. And he does, he soaks me in a pool of how my looks and honesty please him, and then when three hours have passed, he tells me he’s tired, and he would drive me home, but he’d rather wait until morning when it’s safer. He tells me that it’s best if I sleep in his bed, because he doesn’t want me to get lost in his big house.

  When his hands touch my skin a few days later, I don’t know if I want it, but he’s been so generous with his attention and so forthcoming with compliments that when he tells me that my hesitance doesn’t please him, I stop resisting. I do want to please him. I want to continue to be his pretty little girl. He wants to touch me, and I want him to be happy with me, so he doesn’t stop giving me the attention I’ve been starving for my entire life.

  As the days pass, he convinces me over and over not to go home, and within weeks, after telling me if anyone asks I have to tell them I’m eighteen, he takes me out. He dresses me in the most beautiful gowns and dances with me in front of people that also want his attention, but he gives it all to me instead. He spoon feeds me affection to keep me addicted, so that when he takes it away, I’ll scramble to do what he wants just to get it back.

  He’s always gentle, at first. He holds me with care. His kisses are always soft, his touch a welcome warmth that keeps me drugged. He knows exactly how to play the game. He tells me I could be a great wife for him, if only a few small things about me were a little different.

  Alec needs me to be pretty for him, if I’m going to be on his arm, so he sends me to a professional to get my hair changed to a color he prefers. My face is poked and steamed and injected until it has a more aesthetically pleasing shape and complexion. A makeup artist shows me how to define my new face, and a fashion stylist teaches me the best outfits for my body shape to highlight the curves Alec likes and hide the ones he doesn’t.

  He drugs me with flattery, addicts me with promises, and
kills me with his passive aggressive disappointment every single day. When he’s at his worst though, it’s not his words that hurt, it’s his hands. He says he’s sorry, that it won’t happen again, makes up excuses, makes it my fault, and I tell him it’s okay. I stay beside him because I believe someday he’ll get better. Some day his hands will reach out to hold me, not to hurt me.

  But today, I realize that when his hands don’t hurt anymore, it will be because I’m dead. Today, as he steps over me to go to work like nothing happened, I lay on the floor, broken and bleeding, and I finally understand that I’m right. One day he will want to hold me instead of hurt me, but if I continue waiting for that day to come, he’ll reach that point standing over my dead body in the coffin he’s going to put me in.

  Chapter One

  Jewel- present day

  My feet are aching from the trauma they've suffered over the past 24 hours and need to be soaked. The dingy, stained bathtub doesn’t inspire much hope for the future, but I already have about as much hope as I can stand. Hope makes me nauseous and uncomfortable. Hope is a red flag waving in the wind warning me to slow down, back off, take it easy, and I never do. I run head first from one thing to the next. My mother called it impulsive, when we were still speaking. I call it ambitious.

  I jumped straight into the deep end with Alec from the moment we met, and he drowned me in it. The resuscitation my soul required just to get back out of the pool almost killed me again, but I got out. And I’ve run away in the other direction, as fast as my little feet and Hyundai would take me.

  The $4 bottle of wine I snagged from the gas station next door follows me in. It’s a red that isn’t very tasty, but at least it’s alcohol. I haven’t had a drink except for champagne from a crystal flute. I hate champagne, and I hate who I allowed myself to become. This disgusting tub is just the beginning of the journey for me. Things will get better. They can’t get much worse from here.

  I make it through half the bottle before I start singing, but I heard this song on the radio so many times on my trip I can't get it out of my head. I don't feel even the slightest buzz, but I can tell by the soulfulness with which I’m singing country break up songs from memory that I’m not far from a black out. I have the alcohol tolerance of a newborn infant.

  A few more drinks and I recognize how much my muscles have relaxed, my voice belting out of my chest and echoing back to me inside the small bathroom.

  Water splashes over the edge as I move my feet, trying to put on an entire stage performance from inside the tub. Sweat beads on my face and I swipe at it with one of the stark white, threadbare cloths that has clearly seen more than its fair share of bleach.

  I finish off the bottle and grumble to myself as the water temperature grows increasingly colder. This was never where I saw myself ending up. A shitty, cheap motel in Albuquerque that offers rent by the hour isn't exactly my idea of living my best life, but for the moment it will have to be good enough. I’ve lived in the lap of luxury, and I fucking despised it.

  I grew up trash and somehow ended up in a mansion with a rich man that stole every semblance of life from me so quickly that I should have revolted, but I didn’t. I lost myself to the sweet words he offered with one hand and didn’t pay attention to what he was doing with the other hand. That’s my fault.

  There were a couple places along the way as I drove into town with help-wanted signs out front. I'll start applying tomorrow when I wake up, and hopefully find a job before the motel needs more money to let me stay.

  I saved up every dollar Alec gave me in my weekly allowances to be able to make this run and even though I'm hundreds of miles away from him, I still don't feel safe. I've been holding my breath since I left, before then actually, maybe since the first time he put his hands on me. I thought getting away would make the air around me breathable, but it's not just yet. Something is missing.

  I haul myself out of the water on wobbly legs and dry myself quickly before forcing my body, still damp, back into the clothes I wore here. I didn't bring my bag inside when I stomped in, so I don't have anything else to wear. I shove my feet into my dusty cowboy boots, grab a lighter and a cigarette and step outside.

  It's cold in New Mexico, but I've heard it gets chilly in the desert at night and hotter during the day. My wife-beater and sweatpants- chosen because it’s an outfit Alec would never have let me wear- aren't holding up against the wind, but the breeze feels impeccable on my hot, drunk skin. I have to keep my eye on the goal. Eventually, my heart won’t beat so hard anymore. The anxiety will pass and I’ll be able to live again, like I did before I met Alec.

  I lean back against the wall, letting my eyes go closed. I'm so exhausted, and the alcohol is making me relaxed enough for sleep. Tomorrow is a new day, the true beginning of my fresh start. I jolt when I hear the rumbling of motorcycles passing nearby- a reminder of what I'm trying to escape. The fear makes it impossible to relax.

  I stomp my cigarette out in the parking lot and turn to head back in. Hopefully the paper-thin walls of this hotel can keep the howls of motorcycles at bay long enough to let me sleep.

  * * *

  “What can I get for you two today?” I ask the bikers in the booth at the diner I’m now employed at, tapping the tip of my pen against the order pad.

  The one on the left is tall and covered in tattoos in almost all the places I can see- his neck, his arms, his hands, and even his fingers. He looks like the kind of person you don’t want to fuck with, but he smiles sweetly at me when he looks up from his menu. “You new in town?” The patch on his chest says he’s the president of his club, Restless Kings it looks like.

  They can smell it on me, I think. The fear, the newness… They know I don’t belong here. In a city of half a million people, you’d think the predators wouldn’t have already sniffed me out as fresh prey, but it’s obvious. I’m an easy kill, a victim too submissive to pass up.

  I don’t know how men are able to pick up on my weaknesses so easily, but I imagine stuffing them down deep into the pockets of my apron, and smile back at him. “I just rolled in this week.” I’ve been shadowing another waitress for the last two days, but she called off this morning so Barbara told me I’m on the floor myself. We’re almost to closing time and I haven’t done too bad for my first day.

  “Do you like it so far?”

  “I haven’t seen much of it besides this diner.” And the cheapest motel around, but I already know better than to divulge too much information to men. They already know where I work- strike one. They know I’m not from around here, unfamiliar with my surroundings- strike two. They don’t need to know where I’m staying. Not unless I’m trying to die, which for the moment, I am not.

  “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger and fries,” the president says, “and a Coke.” He points to the guy on the other side of the table and I shift my weight so I can see his face. “Zed?”

  Zed is equally terrifying and attractive. He doesn’t smile to soothe me, not that I’m sure a smile would’ve worked with the way his fierce face looks. He has dark brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes that I could drown in. The intense look in his eyes draws me in, but it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be looking at him like this.

  He’s built like an MMA fighter, and he has some tattoos too but not as many as the president. His jaw is sharply squared and his arms bulge against his t-shirt. He’s got his arms crossed in front of him, leaning on the table as his deep eyes look up at me. His jaw clenches and then he slides the menu across the table towards me. “Same.” His rough voice wraps around me and I accept his menu with a shaky smile.

  “Great. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” What the fuck am I thinking? Why is my body already reacting to a strange man only a week after I escaped from Alec’s stranglehold? I roll my eyes at myself as I fill their glasses from the soda dispenser. I’m not going to allow this to happen. This is my fresh start, and I’m not going to fuck that up by… fucking.

  “Here you go.” I deli
berately avoid Zed’s gaze and only look at the president as I deliver their drinks and later when I deliver their food. I know two things about myself for certain: 1.) I am recklessly impulsive, 2.) I am a very bad decision maker. These are things I’ve been told multiple times throughout my life. Some people say those things are related to the way I was raised, some people say I’m just stupid. I like to believe it’s a mixture of both.

  Closing time comes on fast, and the president pays the tab before they leave. I pick up the tip from their table and stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans before wiping the laminate clean. Once I finish cleaning the other two tables, I’ll be done for the night and get to go back to my temporary home.

  "Hey, Jewel," Barb says from behind me. "I'm gonna run the deposit to the bank. You'll be okay here?"

  I look over my shoulder and nod to her. "Yeah, of course." Just outside the window the bikers are still sitting on their bikes in the parking lot. They seem to be chatting. Zed has his arm slung over the handlebars, one foot on the ground and the other on a footrest peg, his other hand holding a cigarette.

  The back door slams closed and I jump, turning back to check. It always slams when Barb goes out that way. It’s not so bad during the day when there’s music and voices, but at night it sounds so much louder. The motorcycles catch my attention again as I watch Barb’s car climb onto the highway. Zed’s watching me with his head cocked to one side. I turn my eyes back down to my shaking hands and let out a breath.

  I hate being left alone. It always leaves me with this feeling like the worst is about to happen. I feel knots tying themselves in my gut while my heart rises up into my throat. Two more tables and I’ll be done. I’ll be behind a solid wood door with two locks and a chair shoved under the doorknob to make sure no one can get in.