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  Love Hard © 2019 Hazel Parker

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Love Hard

  When the lifestyle wears you down …

  It’s time for a break.

  After dedicating my life to the Savage Saints,

  I’m considering giving it all up for the first time.

  After my wife died,

  I’m all that my teenaged daughter has left.

  And she’s growing up too fast.

  With a two week sabbatical from the club,

  I’m going to give the single dad life all I’ve got.

  Who would’ve guessed my daughter

  would set me up with her drama teacher almost immediately?

  Our emotional connection is immediate,

  and we share details of our lives—

  and loves lost.

  She’s been through so much,

  and I’m hesitant to tell her the truth about my ties to the Saints.

  But when real life comes banging down my door,

  we find ourselves in a world of danger.

  The truth comes out in the worst way possible.

  Can I convince her to give me a second chance?

  Or does forgiveness only exist in fantasy?

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Sensei

  Chapter 2: Courtney

  Chapter 3: Sensei

  Chapter 4: Courtney

  Chapter 5: Sensei

  Chapter 6: Courtney

  Chapter 7: Sensei

  Chapter 8: Courtney

  Chapter 9: Sensei

  Chapter 10: Courtney

  Chapter 11: Sensei

  Chapter 12: Courtney

  Chapter 13: Sensei

  Chapter 14: Courtney

  Chapter 15: Sensei

  Chapter 16: Courtney

  Chapter 17: Sensei

  Chapter 18: Courtney

  Chapter 19: Sensei

  Chapter 20: Courtney

  Epilogue

  More from Hazel

  Connect with me!

  Prologue

  In my rearview mirror, the Savage Saints clubhouse, downtown Green Hills, and my duties for the day faded as I made my way for the highway.

  I was perhaps the only person in the MC—and all of Green Hills, really—to commute even further north, even further away from Los Angeles. All the young kids liked to either live close to the club or live close to the city, with partying as the primary reason. Even the older ones, the ones starting to settle down, like Trace and Jane, lived within the confines of Green Hills.

  But I had to keep my club life as separate from my home life as possible. It might have seemed very different, and it might have surprised members of the Saints that I had such a sharp distinction in my life. But then again, if the rest of the Savage Saints knew about the real background of Vance “Sensei” Newhouse, then I’m not sure there would be a distinction—it would just be home life and no club life.

  This evening, though, as I merged on to the highway and left Green Hills behind, it was important for me to make one more stop on the way home. I did this every Friday night, after the weekly club activities; it was a sort of penance to myself for the lies that I kept hidden from everyone else. No one in the Saints knew I did this, but this had less to do with keeping a secret than it did with just being very personal and very private.

  I pulled off just one exit later, winding down a relatively quiet and suburban road. At this point in the week, I would usually hit the same mental patterns—questioning if I was committed enough to be a club officer, questioning if this was all worth it, questioning if the club even needed me. The last year had been a tumultuous one, what with the death of Diablo, the president of the rival Devil’s Mercenaries, and their resulting retaliation. I had never thought to leave then.

  But peace had finally started to come. I wasn’t sure that I would be needed again as a result.

  I then took a left after about two miles down the private road and came to a cemetery. I parked my bike near the front, turning it off, listening to the gentle tweeting of birds. The shift from the sound of a bike between my legs to that of nature around me always fascinated me—it reminded me how much I appreciated the bike for the power it gave me. I controlled the vessel beneath me with the utmost power and ease, but outside, I controlled very little.

  Very much how, almost fifteen years ago, I failed to control…

  I shook myself out of the dark thoughts, hopping off the bike, removing my helmet, and then making my way forward.

  As usual, Paul Peters, the founder and first president of the Savage Saints, was at the front, his grave noticeable above many of the others. Even aside from his work with the Saints, Paul had done so much for the town of Green Hills that he was practically a god in the area; he was less Paul, a citizen of Green Hills, and more like Paul, the founder of Catholicism. I’m not kidding when I say he mattered that much to the community.

  “Hey, Paul,” I said as I approached his grave.

  And then kept on walking.

  Because I wasn’t here for Paul; I was here for the grave about two rows past him.

  I knelt by the black tombstone with the silver lettering.

  “Here lies Olivia Newhouse, April 30th, 1980-April 2nd, 2005. A devoted wife who, in her last act, gave life to a new soul.”

  My fingers traced over her name, slowly looping around the “O” before ending on the curve of the lower case “e.”

  “Hey, baby,” I murmured.

  The story that the Savage Saints knew was true—up to a point. Olivia, my wife of three years at the time, had been eight months pregnant with our daughter, Alyssa. A terrible accident had happened, requiring both of us to be rushed to the hospital. Obviously, I survived. Olivia did not, despite the doctors’ best efforts.

  However, the third person in that accident, Alyssa, did. It required an emergency procedure to extract her from Olivia, and I spent the next two months terrified that I was going to lose both members of my family to that accident. Somehow, my little Alyssa pulled through. Fourteen years later, she had turned into a wonderful teenager—no, really—and someone whom I was very proud of.

  But that left out a very key detail that I never revealed to anyone. I never told it to club members, I never told it to Paul or to Trace, and I hadn’t even told it to Alyssa.

  The world—and even the official police and medical reports—believed that the accident had transpired as a result of the road actions of the Devil’s Mercenaries. We’d been driving through the area, and it was true that a car had been involved that was owned by the Mercs.

  But it wasn’t his fault.

  It was mine.

  It was me, not paying attention to the road, speeding through red lights and stop signs, who was at fault. It was me, the supposed wise sage of the club, who had acted like an idiot and killed my wife. It was me, the responsible one, who had killed my wife.

  No one knew this partially because I didn’t
want the club to splinter on me. I didn’t want to lose the appearance of being the “responsible, wise” one in the club. This was doubly true with Paul Peters talking about retirement from the club at the time, though I couldn’t say I was too upset with Trace becoming president.

  I’d thought about revealing the truth just a few years later when it began to eat at my consciousness, but then Paul died, and things had gone to hell ever since, and I just didn’t feel like it was appropriate to burden Trace with that as well.

  But I knew that was just all some polite bullshit to prevent the club from knowing the real Sensei. I was a coward. I’d killed my wife and pinned the blame on the Devil’s Mercenaries. They had done a lot of evil things that they needed to be punished for, but that was not one of them.

  “You know, a lot of people at the club are getting into relationships these days,” I said, putting my full palm on the tombstone. “But… well, I still got you, baby.”

  I knew full well I was living in a world of denial, but though I had removed my wedding ring—I didn’t deserve to wear such a beautiful piece of jewelry—there was no way I was following in the footsteps of Trace, Splitter, and, heavens, even BK. I wasn’t over Olivia, and I certainly wasn’t over my guilt.

  “And you’ll have me forever,” I said, smiling.

  I’m ashamed enough of shifting the blame away from myself that this is the least I can do.

  I sought more words, but it was getting late. I didn’t have anything else to say, anyway. These meetings with my deceased wife usually just resulted in me trying to find the courage and conviction to tell someone the truth, only to crumble seconds later. I’m not even sure why I did this, anyway; Olivia would probably sternly lecture me about bullshitting. She was good for that. She took no shit and didn’t let a lot of the bullshit of the MC world slide.

  Nevertheless, I left a short time after, hopping back on my bike, the only motorcyclist to drive the speed limit in Los Angeles, heading for my home about fifteen miles north. When I reached my neighborhood, it was a small, small area, smaller even then Green Hills. I knew all my neighbors, all of whom understood I was part of the Saints, but they didn’t mind. I made sure my life with the club never came this way; if someone wanted to meet with me outside of the club, I always went to them, no exceptions.

  But that wasn’t because of my neighbors. It was because of Alyssa.

  I parked my bike just inside my garage, made sure I was emotionally put together, hung up my cut in the garage, and walked inside. I could hear Alyssa talking to herself before I even got in.

  “… way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.”

  I turned the corner. She was practicing for her upcoming play, and I did my best not to make eye contact with her and distract her. But before I could even grab a beer from the fridge, Alyssa had already dropped character and turned to me.

  “You’re home… on time,” she said with surprise.

  I chuckled at that. Like I said, the last year or so had been all over the place.

  “So I guess you could say I’m early, huh,” I said, but I had no interest in remaining on this topic. “How goes the rehearsal? Do you feel ready?”

  “Getting there,” Alyssa said as she sat across from me.

  Whenever I looked at her, I could see the spitting image of Olivia. She had the same wavy brown hair, the same green eyes, and the same pale skin. It was a damn good thing she got most of her traits from her mother because I’m not sure what could have been done if she got anything from me.

  She was the future of the Newhouses in the best way possible. She was going to go to a good college; she was going to become something… she was going to get far, far away from the world of MCs and violence, and I couldn’t be prouder for it.

  “What did you do today?” she said.

  I knew she was being polite, but I hated these questions. I think she knew I hated them, too, but she wanted me to talk. She had an idea that my life had not been the kindest, but I don’t think she realized to what extent so much of that was self-inflicted.

  “Saw Mom,” I said. “She’s doing good as always. I told her that everyone in the club seems to be getting hitched. Things are settling down. It’s kind of weird, but, you know. Things are good.”

  I didn’t keep it a secret that I was in the Savage Saints—that would have been way too hard—but I kept it vague. Alyssa, though, seemed to latch onto this topic, her eyes going wide before narrowing in on me. I always got nervous at that expression, as it foretold of something biting and humorous to come.

  “Maybe you should hitch yourself up too,” she said with a smile.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Alyssa, you’re kind, but no, that’s not happening. You know—”

  “I know, I know, ‘I’m too busy, and I don’t have time to date.’”

  Do I really sound like that?

  Damn, it’s impressive how well she can impersonate me. She is the actress queen, though.

  “But you’re going to have to eventually, Dad,” she said. “I’m going to go to college someplace far away. Even UCLA is far. Maybe you should start to consider it.”

  I sighed.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  Apparently, I had said such a thing quite frequently because Alyssa was perfectly miming me. I laughed when this happened, and we soon turned it into one of our favorite games—seeing who could mirror the other more effectively, both in movement and in words. It was a nice distraction from what she had said, in part because I knew it was true.

  Maybe I did need to start opening myself up, not just for relationships but to the truth. Maybe I did need to consider finding someone whom I could love and care for. Maybe I did need that connection.

  But I doubted I’d ever be in a state to do such a thing.

  * * *

  I sat on the couch feeling a little bit cold. I had turned on the evening news with a bowl of popcorn in my hand, needing something in my hand to prevent myself from grabbing a drink.

  It had been two months now since I had had any alcohol, but that wasn’t even the longest I’d gone without booze over the last few years. I was proud of this accomplishment, but I wasn’t about to pretend that it was anything worth celebrating. All that being sober meant was that I could be a teacher who wasn’t hungover all the time, not that I had accomplished some great deed in the world.

  The evening news went through the normal stuff at first. In a small town like Green Hills, we didn’t have a lot of local news beyond shops opening and closing, upcoming parades and events, and maybe the occasional traffic accident.

  Well, we had… them, but I tried not to think about them.

  Then, about fifteen minutes in, I heard the words that left me shaking.

  “Coming up next, are the Savage Saints more Savage, or more Saints? The answer may surprise you.”

  Just what this town needs. More propaganda for a goddamn criminal organization.

  Still, I wanted to see if the news team would surprise me. Maybe they really would.

  I should have known better.

  As soon as the station came back from a commercial, the story flipped over to about five of them—all with tattoos, all with those ugly jackets, all wearing either smug grins or an expression far too serious for a fluff piece—sitting before a journalist, discussing the club.

  “What do you want the city of Los Angeles to know about you?”

  The journalist was a young up and comer named Devon that I recognized from previous segments, but right now, I just wanted to smack him. You’re letting the gang define their image! That’s not good journalism!

  “That we care about this community, and that we want to make it a better place than we left it,” the first one said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “That we’re real people.”

  “That we’re human.”

  Those two had spoken almost sincerely enough that I wanted to believe outside of the organization, those men might no
t have been so mean. But inside…

  “That we’re not thugs; we’re not gangsters: we’re a club.”

  “What does it matter?” I shouted over the sound of the television as the oldest biker in the group said. “You can call yourselves whatever you want! You still ruined my life!”

  I looked for the remote at that point, finding it wedged between two seat cushions. I tried desperately to turn off the TV, but none of my buttons seemed to be working.

  “Fuck!”

  In frustration, I slammed my remote on the table in front of me, breaking it. I looked at it in frustration, stood up, turned off the TV, and fell to the ground.

  Five years ago… five years ago, I was such a cheerful and happy person. It was hard to find a teacher more upbeat than Miss Courtney Ross, even though a lot of people didn’t see a way out of Green Hills.

  And then my husband had gotten caught in the crossfire between the Saints and another gang. He’d died on the spot.

  And it’s all their fault. So-called “just motorcycle enthusiasts.” Don’t forget that you’re also gun enthusiasts and criminal enthusiasts too!

  I stood up and headed to the kitchen. I needed a damn drink. I needed alcohol in me. I needed something, anything to make me feel better, and right now, that was the bottle. It wouldn’t hurt me that bad. I didn’t teach until Monday, giving me multiple nights to recover. I had no duties until tomorrow anyway.

  I opened the cabinet of red wine and pulled out a bottle of Merlot. I popped it open, grabbed a glass, and poured.

  And then, in a moment of sanity, I caught myself before I consumed the glass.

  Did I really want to throw two months of sobriety down the drain? My date would start all over again. Sixty days of resisting a drop of alcohol snapped away with a single impulsive decision. Was that something I wanted to do?

  Well, no.

  But did I want to live in a world in which I was a widow and my husband’s murderers were glorified on TV for doing community service that was likely just a promotional stunt? Did I want to pretend to be great and strong, when in reality, I was weak and unstable?