Comfort isn’t any easier to find as a grown man. My mom resents how I look like the man she lost. I’m a never-ending reminder of her broken heart.
My mother sees the past when she looks at me while my uncle views his replacement. No longer Nephew Conor, I’m the guy who’ll take his spot in the future. Every fucking move I make is reviewed and filed away in his head.
Which was why I wanted to bail Elko. Bronco might be president for several more decades. He’s in good shape. His main guys are ancient, but he can hire muscle to do the heavy lifting. No, my uncle was in no hurry to retire. If I bailed, I wouldn’t be letting down the family, our club, or this town.
I don’t owe them anything, either. I’ve worked harder than the other young guys, even living under pressure they never felt. I did my time and made my money fair and square.
Yet, I didn’t run. I knew once I bailed, even for a few months, my spot at the top of the club would come crashing down. Afraid to make a decision I couldn’t walk back, I stuck around.
But I felt restless. Unable to run or find any peace, I turned my anger on the remaining Killing Joes' members. My partner in crime for that mission is a dirty little secret in my family. My half-sister was created during a regular fling between a former club girl and my playboy dad. Since she was little, Aja lived in another state with another crew of criminals. For years, we’ve had a low-key relationship. Everyone in the Woodlands knows Aja exists, but no one dares to speak of her and piss off my mom.
A few years back, when I planned to hunt down what remained of the Killing Joes, I asked if Aja wanted to help. Ready to get her hands dirty away from her family’s protection, she agreed. During our month-long hunt, I got myself centered. Grew up some, too. Having a blade sink into my stomach in a Cincinnati shithole certainly offered me a whole new perspective.
Plus, Aja showed me how to own my needs. Back in her hometown, she felt pressure to hook up with a guy in her father’s club. She wanted him but becoming a man’s property was a no-go.
“Know your boundaries,” she said when I was healing up from my gut wound. “Everyone only gets one life. Your uncle got his, and your mom got hers. Our father lived a long life. You’re two-and-a-half decades into your life, Conor. Do you want to waste the next two worrying over what other people need?”
If Aja managed to stand up to her people, I figured I could do the same with mine. Except she sensed I would return to my old habits once I returned to Elko.
“You have no safe space,” she told me after we finished off the last man involved in our father’s death. “You’re not safe in here,” she said and tapped my head and then my chest. “Or here. You need to find someone or someplace to feel safe, or else you’ll burn out long before you’re president. Get it?”
“I feel safe in Elko.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, smiling at my obvious bullshit. “I don’t know if you should ditch that town or if you’d feel just as lonely somewhere else. I just know you won’t live long enough to get old if you never find a place where you can lower your guard.”
Taking Aja’s advice, I returned to town with newfound confidence. My renewal only lasted a year. Back in Elko, everyone has their place, and I found myself restless again. Mom is often out of the house, always busy with her hobbies. The club runs too smoothly for me to fix anything. These days, I’m ready to bail again.
I’ve already got one foot planted out the door when Monroe Hobbs enters my life.
The curvy blonde shows up at our clubhouse—Rooster’s Tavern—claiming to need a job. Her evasive answers give the impression she wants to become a club bunny. Women as hot as Monroe are a rarity. Of course, the club gives her a shot.
As soon as our eyes meet, I want her. No one else can have a taste. I can’t imagine her passed around by my club brothers. That’s why I call dibs before Monroe and I even share a conversation.
Despite being apparently named after Marilyn Monroe, she reminds me more of Bridget Bardot with a 1970s Debbie Harry haircut. Her mane is thick, her brown eyes lively, and her lips are made for blowjobs. I nearly jizz my pants one night when I catch her nursing a beer bottle. Even a glimpse of the woman sends my dirty thoughts into overdrive.
Like all club girls, Monroe moves into the small apartment building situated just outside the Woodlands’ gated community. The Overlook is run by a former bunny named Jena, who sorta aged out on party time. Most bunnies stick around for a few years before moving on to the next stage of their lives.
These days, Jena acts as a den mother to the eight women who party with the Executioners and work at our clubhouse and other various businesses. Monroe picks up shifts at Rooster’s along with the restaurant named after my aunt—and Rooster’s wife—Bambi’s Bar & Grill.
Despite calling dibs on Monroe, I don’t make a move for her immediately. She’s clearly hiding secrets that might ruin our potential fun. I’m too fascinated by the fantasy of my mystery girl to ruin shit with reality.
Over the next few weeks, I notice several facts about the hot blonde. She sings along to every song. Even when Wyatt’s bitchy redheaded wife—DeAnna—demands she stop, Monroe can’t help mouthing along with the words.
I also realize she’s waitressed before. Not in a restaurant, though. The food orders trip her up. However, she can carry a heavy tray of booze without hesitation.
Monroe’s from up north. Not Canada, but one of the states where people sound like extras from “Fargo.” I caught her accent slip in occasionally when she took orders.
She isn’t really a blonde. Even before her roots started showing, she fessed up one night when I cornered her in the nearly empty bar.
“I’m not really blonde,” she blurted out while staring up at me.
“I’m not really this sexy. Like, I have to brush my hair to get this hot.”
Monroe offered me a heavenly smile that night, but nothing came of it. Eventually, I asked Jena for Monroe’s backstory. No doubt, the bunnies have hit her up for details. Apparently, Monroe always keeps things vague. When pushed, she claims she’s hiding from an ex-boyfriend. She even asks to be paid under the table to avoid creating a credit trail.
The violent ex-boyfriend story makes sense. One day, I notice Monroe out with her roommate, Amity, and a few other bunnies at the grocery store. She wears a baseball cap and sunglasses despite the cloudy skies. Though Monroe smiles and laughs a lot, I catch how she’s always aware of her surroundings.
So far, we’ve only shared a few moments alone at the bar. Usually, one of us is headed to the restroom or leaving while the other is going in the opposite direction. I’d say her name, and she’d say mine. Those two words held the promise of a future together.
Very aware I want her, Monroe waits for me to make my move. But I can’t stop hesitating. This need for Monroe feels too good. The anticipation, the what-ifs, and the fantasies of her naked will go away once I get to know the real person. Reality rarely lives up to my dreams.
Mostly, I’m afraid her secrets might be a dealbreaker. Much like Aja walked away from a relationship that wouldn’t work, I choose to pace myself with one that’ll likely flop.
Yet, I’ve figured out one of Monroe’s secrets. For weeks, my club brothers, their wives, and the bunnies gossiped about how Monroe is hot for the Executioners’ VP, Lowell Sinema. They’ve tormented me plenty about how my crush has a thing for older men. I always smile at their ribbing, knowing they’ve got it all wrong.