Beast: Learning to Breathe (Devil's Blaze MC #5)

I’m not sure why Skull has gained a conscience about the woman now. Pistol has been dead for three fucking years. Why give a shit about his sister now? He said he has trouble looking at his daughter and then wondering if Pistol’s sister was truly innocent and is paying for the crimes of her brother. Skull took for granted that Pistol’s brother, Cade would handle matters with the sister. Apparently, Hayden is only Pistol’s half-sister. She’s not related to Cade, who didn’t even know about her. I guess Skull feels some sense of duty to the bitch. Which means he gave me a mountain—a place to live alone, and all I have to do is check in on the bitch.

What Skull failed to mention was that the barn and converted loft I will be living in is next door to the woman. The bastard. It’s on my mind to get back on my bike and leave. The problem is, I have nowhere else to go. I sure as hell am not going back to Kentucky. My hands are tied, but it takes more energy than I can muster to care. I’ll make it clear to the woman I want to be left alone; that will be the last and only time I deal with her. Then, I’ll text Skull and tell him the chick is living in a hell-hole…maybe.

Walking back to my bike, I veer off at the last minute to take a leak. I’ve got my pants unzipped and my dick out when all of the sudden I feel something jab me in the back. Looking over my shoulder, I see the long end of a shotgun barrel pointed at me. I follow the length of it until my eyes land on a woman holding the gun. She’s five foot nine, maybe ten. Dark bronze hair falls down in dull waves almost to her elbows. There’s a beat-up looking brown hat on her head and the clothes she has on are butt-ugly. Maybe she could be decent, but it’d take some damn work. She’s skinny—maybe a little too skinny. I can see breasts, but they are hard to make out the size of through that huge sweatshirt she’s wearing. This woman appears willowy like a strong gust of wind would blow her over, except for one thing. Her stomach is jutting out, immediately drawing my eye. She’s obviously pregnant.

My dick drained, I shake off the excess, slide him back in my pants, and zip up. Then, I turn around to face her.

“You always take a wiz on other people’s private property?”

“Only when my dick demands it. You want to lower your gun?”

“Not especially, since you’re trespassing. Who are you?”

“I’m going to be your neighbor. Just bought Whittler’s Mountain,” I tell her, conveniently leaving out the fact that I’ll be living next door.

“You look like a mountain man. I didn’t know they were selling.” She appears confused.

I grunt, walking around her to go back to my bike. “You should leave the gun-handling up to your man. It’s dangerous to pull a weapon on a stranger; it could get you killed. You need to think about your baby.”

Her eyes darken. “I don’t have a man.”

“That cantaloupe in your stomach would seem to argue that point,” I tell her, my voice straining. I don’t talk that much, and I hate the hoarse sound that comes out of my throat sometimes when I speak. It’s a reminder of what was taken from me, and I don’t need any fucking reminders. I carry that shit with me every second. I look over at the woman one last time. Her gun is down and she’s rubbing her hand over her stomach. When she looks back up at me, there’s a sadness in her eyes that grabs a hold of my attention.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she says.

I shrug and start up my bike. She spares me one last glance, then takes off walking. I watch her almost against my will as she heads back to the old shack I had just been looking at. I guess I just met Hayden Graham…Pistol’s sister.





2





Hayden





I watch from the safety of my front porch as the man on the bike disappears up the hill. I’m not sure how I feel about having someone this close. There was something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. I should steer away from him completely. He towers over me, and that’s not something that happens much, considering I’m 5’9. His dark hair was pulled back at his neck but a lot was pulled loose from riding on his bike, and it kept his face hid. Yet, even that combined with the large beard he was sporting, didn’t hide the scars. They cover parts of his face, especially around one eye. Those are light though, especially pale compared to the ones that run up his hands and disappear under the long sleeved leather coat he’s wearing. I’ve seen enough scars to know those were from a serious fire. I don’t know what happened to the man, but I can only imagine the pain he endured.

Still, it isn’t that which makes me feel like I need to definitely stay away from him. He’s got the appearance of a hardened biker. He reminds me of them. That’s not the kind of trouble I need. That’s how I ended up in the mess I’m in. Not that I think of my daughter as a mess. I rub my stomach in reflex. She’ll be everything good—despite how she came to be. That’s not her fault. I’ll make sure she knows she’s loved. That’s all I want her to know. Love. I don’t want the ugliness of this world to touch Maggie…not like it did me.

Pushing my thoughts aside, I walk into the house. I’m not actually sure you can call it a house, but it’s more of one than I’ve ever had, and I’ll make sure my daughter is happy here. My daughter. I’m naming her Maggie. It’s not terribly original. It happens to come from my favorite Rod Stewart song, Maggie May.

My tiny house does need work though, and sadly it’s work that I’m not capable of doing. It’s winter, and January at that. The next few months will be the coldest we’ve had. The roof might hold for a bit longer, though the leaks are getting worse. The cold air coming through the windows and poorly insulated walls freeze me as it is, let alone a few months down the road, when Maggie arrives. I can’t let that happen. My only source of heat is a fireplace and some electric heaters I picked up at a secondhand store. I need to find something safer for when the baby is with me. That problem, coupled with the fact that I don’t really know anyone who does that kind of work, is summed up in one word—money. Working as a waitress in town, I don’t get paid minimum wage. I get paid much, much less because I’m allowed to keep my tips. Tips that most people in town rarely leave, besides the odd dollar here and there. That means money is almost nonexistent. I don’t have a lot of skills. I didn’t get to finish high school; I’ve never had any kind of training. I am basically good at two things in my life…waiting on people and baking. So, I’m a waitress who has started a side job baking cakes, pies, cookies, and anything else I can think of that might sell. Several local businesses offer my items for sale now. The church and my boss being the main two, and because of them, I’ve managed to make quite a bit extra. Still, money is tight, and I have a long way to go before I can afford to hire a handyman. The other main problem with that is I have no idea how I can handle having someone in my house. I figure I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.