Page 2 of Brood

Chapter One

Three Years Later

Miles upon miles of open road span out in front of me. I passed a small town a few miles ago, topped off my gas tank, and grabbed myself two more overly caffeinated drinks. Hopefully, that will do it. Get me a little further for the night before I'm forced to pull over and get some rest. It’s been like this for two days now. Drive until utter exhaustion sets in, and I’m forced to sleep. I get a short power nap in, then I’m on the road again. Two days of zig-zagging across the country with the hope I don’t leave a straight trail. I only need to make it to the coast, then I can disappear. Hopefully.

I push down my emotions and force myself not to cry again. No more tears. I have to keep going, keep driving. Keep breathing.

Only my luck is about to run out in the worst of ways when I start to smell something burning coming through my heater vents. “Oh no, just what I don’t need. Please don’t die,” I groan as if the car can hear me and keep the pedal down, maybe I can get just a little further— bang! Something pops from under the hood, and the car stalls out, shutting completely off as it drifts down to a slow roll. I can barely steer due to the lack of power, somehow managing to coast down the hill until I come to a complete stop on the side of the road. My poor engine gives one last groan before everything goes silent.

Looking behind me then to the front, I let out a long frustrated breath and make myself comfortable in the seat. There is no way I’m walking outside in a place I don’t know, in the middle of nowhere at night, so I will just have to wait until the morning and get some rest. Good thing I didn’t crack into one of those drinks yet.

* * *

I wake to the sun peering through my back window, bringing the vacant land to life as it rolls along the ground below me. I release a full body yawn and try to stretch my limbs in the confined space of my car. “Now or never, I guess,” I mumble to myself and reach down to grab my bag that holds much more than clothes. It’s heavy, and when I get it slung over my shoulders, I come to regret stuffing so much inside, but only for a second. I need every bit of what is in this bag. Even if it ends up being a bargaining chip.

I grip onto the straps tight and put one foot in front of the other. I’m glad in that moment I at least had the sense to make a break for it wearing my running shoes, and not my favorite pair of flips flops that I will never see again. I couldn’t be sentimental about shoes, or anything really when packing. All I have to wear are the clothes on my back— a pair of boot cut low-rise jeans, black Henley and my gray sweatshirt— and the pair of shorts and tank top I have stuffed inside the bag. Not much to pack when nothing you every really had in your life was even yours to begin with.

As I walk along the pebbled side of the road, buildings start to take place in the distance, and a rumbling sound gradually gets louder behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin when the sharp ear-piercing sound of a train whistle blows. I lose probably ten years off my life as the train rolls by me. I flip them the bird as if they can even see me and trudge on toward the small buildings that are growing bigger with each step I take. It’s a town. Small, but hopefully there is someone who has a car to sell or maybe even someone who can fix mine.

After what seems to be forever, I finally reach the edge of the little town and look up to read the sign. “Rhino. Population 150. What are the chances of this place having a mechanic?” This day just keeps getting better and—

“Hey there,” a soft feminine voice catches my attention as I stand under the sign informing me of where I am. And how screwed I probably am. She is standing outside of a building labeled Café, holding up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun beating down on my back. “I take it you’re new in town since you just walked in?” she asks in a warmly welcoming tone, and I find myself walking closer to her friendliness.

“You would be guessing right. My car broke down last night. I slept in it and walked here this morning,” I explain as I make my way closer to where she stands, a wide bright smile on her face. Her long silver-streaked raven black hair is in two braids that hang down her front, coming nearly to her waist.

“Well that really sucks, but you couldn’t have broken down in a better place,” she declares and opens the door for me to go inside. “Come on in, I will fix you up some breakfast,” she offers, and with the grumble in my stomach, I don’t even think twice about it.

The smell of bacon greets me when I step inside, causing my mouth to water. I guess this was the best place to break down. “What can I get you? A bacon and eggs kind of girl?” I nod and offer a thank you as I continue to look around. The place is small, with dated tables and chairs placed around the room. An old Coke fridge sits along the wall stocked full of every Coke product. Next to the fridge is a tall shelf housing an array of baked goods, all looking to be handmade bagged up in zip lock bags and placed out for sale. “That right there keeps me busy. If I’m not slaving over the stovetop I’m baking up a storm. The boys love my fresh-baked bread. Can’t get enough of it,” she tells me. It’s then I catch the slight wrinkling around her eyes and mouth. She is maybe in her sixties. The second thing I notice is the tattoo on her chest that peeks out from under her V-neck. Property of— “Here you are sweetie,” she says, placing the plate down on the table closest to me. “Eat up, in about fifteen minutes this place will be packed and I’m afraid that you might be pushed out of your spot.” She winks and turns away but must forget something because she turns back around. “I’m Iris, by the way,” she introduces herself and without even thinking I open my big mouth.

“Jordyn.” Immediately, I mentally kick myself for giving my real name only there isn’t anything I can do about it now.

“Well, nice to meet you, Jordyn. We’ll get your car sorted out. My husband is the president of the Hell’s Riders MC. They got a shop here in town and will fix you up in a gif.” My fork stops midair, and my once hungry stomach turns sour.

“MC?” I rasp already knowing what she is talking about.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Motorcycle Club.”

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