Page 1 of The Big Bad's Claim
1
KENNA
Just when you think it can’t get any worse, something like this happens. It’s getting home after a week’s work to find a burst pipe. Falling in love for the first time, then figuring out you’ve been cheated on all along. Waking up on a Monday morning to discover you’re out of hot water.
This is the last drop into a bucket full of problems, and it’s the drop that forces me to accept I am one unlucky girl.
Todd Verner was not my type, but I guess I wasn’t his, too. He’s short, less than an inch taller than my five-five, pale, with eyes a sickly blue color that I never thought pretty. A little under average, but he always treated me well, even when we had no common interests and he gives me a total of zero butterflies. He mentioned my weight a couple of times, but I would always tell him he's not exactly thin and he’d stop. Much better than every other man I’ve ever met.
Mom taught me fairy tales don’t exist from early on. If I wanted love—and everyone does—I’d have to lower my expectations. A guy with a stable job, an accountant or lawyer, someone who would come home after work and kiss me while I cooked dinner. Nothing perfect, but a family better than the one I had as a kid.
My bar is pretty low.
It still surprised me when I entered my apartment, which Todd has the keys to. When I heard his voice in the kitchen, I let myself daydream he was cooking up something nice for dinner. I tiptoed closer to check it out, and that’s when my world fell apart.
Todd is not the man I thought he was. And the knowledge might just kill me.
Thank God for small mercies. For him not noticing my arrival, for the elevator to be waiting for me, for someone to hold the door on my way out. I ran out of the building, and still, I run, my purse glued to my side, the sight of Todd with a pistol in hand impossible to wipe off. My eyes are dry against the icy evening air, my knuckles bleached around the purse’s handle. I keep running, my sneakers hitting the pavement, my legs burning. The stitch in my side aches now, but I can’t stop. Air burns down my throat as I keep myself moving.
Of all the days I had to leave early. Of all the days to get home before six.
I could cross the city and go to my mother’s place, but Todd would know to find me there. Todd knows my mother and my closest friends. And if he did hear me leaving, he’ll come after me, and he’ll go after them to make sure I stay quiet. I could go to the cops, but what proof do I have? They wouldn’t believe me, and that would just put me back in Todd’s hands.
If he learns I know about him, he’ll end me. So, I go to the one place I can hide.
A couple of blocks down from my apartment, there’s a bar. I run there, only slowing down to cross the street. The Black Widow Bar, a place I’ve never been to, rises on the horizon like a beacon, but I don’t sigh in relief just yet. Getting inside is the least of my problems. Getting inside won’t keep me safe.
The Waywards need to agree to protect me.
There are few motorcycle clubs still famous, less so here in town. One of them is infamous enough every sane girl would keep her distance. The Waywards have been on the news several times in the past years, growing amid gang violence, taking over territories, and working as vigilantes in places the government ignores.
They’re violence incarnate. And it’s said they give protection to anyone willing to pay.
I don’t have much money, but I also don’t have other options. If they take me under their wing until I'm certain Todd didn’t hear me, I can survive.
Slowing down, I catch my breath before I open the door to the bar. The main room is almost empty, even when there are several bikes parked in front. The walls were once painted white, but they’re so tainted now it looks yellow. Several tables cover the area, round ones and square ones, mismatched. Some are made of wood, but there are more than one that’s plastic. The chairs are the same. The bar counter attracts my attention, a massive block of dark wood, polished to a gleam. Behind it, bottles of all colors catch the yellow light, creating a kaleidoscope as I move closer.
The scent of stale beer hits my nose as I take deep breaths. It’s not all disgusting. There’s something musky beneath the alcohol, something like male cologne, as if too many men visit often. I make my way to the bar and stop there, meeting the eyes of the one person in the place.
The bartender is a woman in her fifties, in a tank top showing off muscular arms covered in colorful tattoos. She stops cleaning the glasses when our gazes lock. Her short dark hair peeks from under a black scarf, wrapped around her head. She’s rather pretty and has a presence to her. She gives me a once-over, her left eyebrow arching.
“Can I help you?” she asks in the raspy voice of someone who has to scream constantly.
I swallow hard. “Maybe,” I say, then shake my head. “I hope so. Are you with the Waywards?”
The corner of her mouth tilts up, making a scar appear there. “Hell no. But I own the bar.” She goes back to wiping glasses, then tilts her chin in my direction. “Why? Are you a reporter? Blaise doesn’t do reporters.”
I shake my head again. “No, I—” How am I going to approach the subject? I didn’t think this over. Should I tell her? Should I ask to see this Blaise? I tighten my hold on my purse, and only then do I notice I’m shaking. Please, God, let this work. I have no idea where to go if they kick me out. “I need help.”
She shakes her head, looking down at her work. “Then you’re in the wrong place, girl. If you call a cab, you’ll have to go down the block. They don’t come near the bar.”
I swallow. That should be a good enough sign that I’m not supposed to be here. “I need the club’s protection.”
The woman shoots her attention back at me, then frowns. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“I’m desperate,” I say, my voice breaking.
She stares at me, into me, as if she could read my mind. Her eyes don’t move as she studies me for a long minute, my heartbeat the only sound I hear. Finally, she releases a sigh, her shoulders dropping. She leans forward over the counter, eyes widening an inch.
