Titan (EEMC Book 2) Read online

  TITAN

  EEMC #2

  BIJOU HUNTER

  Copyright © 2020 Bijou Hunter

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  For more information about this series and author, please visit her website.

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  Cover

  Photographer: K Jolak

  Source: Depositphotos

  Cover Copyright © 2020 Bijou Hunter

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  Dedication

  To SaMiJaMaLu

  My lovely betas—Sarah, Debbie, Cynthia, Carina, and Sheri

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

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  Book Summary

  Anders Van Der Haas has known only pain in his life. Years ago, he got a fresh start when he joined the Elko Executioners MC. But his heart remained hollow until he met a strange woman living in the even stranger cult in his new hometown.

  Pixie Yabo doesn’t know to fear a man like the huge biker. She grew up in a world outside of the norm. With Anders, she sees only possibilities.

  Yet their budding relationship has put a target on Pixie’s family and set the stage for a war between her cult and his club. Can a man steeped in pain and a woman dripping with eccentricities find happiness together without destroying everyone they love?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART 1: LOST AND FOUND

  ANDERS “TITAN” VAN DER HAAS

  PIXIE YABO

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PART 2: NO LONGER IN THE WILD

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  PART 3: PLEASURE AND PAIN

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PART 4: NO TIME TO BREATHE

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PART 5: AIN’T NO PARTY LIKE A WOODLANDS PARTY

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  PART 6: CUTTING OUT THE CANCER

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PART 7: EXPANDING THE GARDEN

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  PART 8: WELL, THAT HAPPENED

  PART 9: EPILOGUES

  PIXIE

  ANDERS

  “FROST” SNEAK PEEK

  DAMAGED SERIES-RELATED BOOKS READING ORDER

  ABOUT BIJOU

  PART 1: LOST AND FOUND

  ANDERS “TITAN” VAN DER HAAS

  Pain has been the one constant in my life. My earliest memories are of crying in a dark closet, nursing the latest beating. Even a bright spot in my life, like the time I earned a little ribbon for spelling in school, was marred by the pain of the whipping from the night before.

  Drugs and booze helped. A lot, actually. Once I got old enough to steal a beer from my grandfather’s stash or pop one of my grandmother’s OxyContin, I found relief. Life got easier when I was wasted.

  But heroin was a whole new ball of fucking pain.

  A pretty girl got me hung up on that addiction. Melanie said I was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, yet my scarred body made her sad. She was certain heroin would make my pain disappear. I still remember the way she smelled that night she first hooked me up. Shit, Melanie was beautiful, and I felt like the luckiest, most powerful man on that high.

  In reality, I was a fucking moron. That pretty girl saw nothing worth loving in me. Melanie’s heart belonged to Lonnie Root—the president of the Killing Joes Motorcycle Club. That pretty girl might have been a liar, but she wasn’t dumb. Getting a big guy like me hooked on drugs I couldn’t afford meant I’d be loyal to her man. That’s how I became the club’s new enforcer.

  My size always got me into trouble. If I wasn’t a giant in a world of norms, I could have lived my life with less hassle. People always noticed me, though, and they never liked what they saw. I was a freak or a monster or a dupe to be used as a weapon. I never had any damn use except for my size.

  For over a decade, I remained a slave to heroin. Those years are difficult to remember. I murdered people—good or bad, didn’t matter—for the Killing Joes. I fucked women who disliked me, and I called myself a brother to men who didn’t care if I lived or died. My high was the only good thing in my fucking life.

  My eventual rejection of heroin and the Killing Joes wasn’t spurred by a great internal desire for a better life. There’s only one reason I’m alive and clean—Bronco Parrish didn’t take the shot.

  The president of the Elko Executioners had me dead to rights in that drug den. Barely conscious, I’d been hiding out there for weeks. The entire club was scattered, scared of a war Lonnie started, but we weren’t equipped to finish.

  That day, Bronco had his shot. I’ve never understood why he didn’t pull the trigger. The man wanted revenge. The Killing Joes ambushed his friend. My life should have been over.

  Bronco has never told me why he didn’t put a bullet in my head. He swears he doesn’t know. Early on, Bronco claimed he didn’t care how the video footage from the bar where Wheels was murdered proved I wasn’t there. He assured me that he wanted every member of the Killing Joes dead. Yet, he walked away when most men would have ended me.

  For weeks, maybe months, I wondered why Bronco Parrish let me live when he shouldn’t have. He killed other guys in my club. The man wasn’t weak. Did he see something in me worth saving?

  Many men in my line of work were angry kids who wanted to burn down the world. When I was young, I rarely got mad, though. Mostly, I felt sad and confused. Why was everyone such an asshole to me? Why couldn’t I catch a break with a single fucking person? I just wanted to feel love like everyone else. Was I a monster like my grandparents claimed?

  Bronco’s choice that day left a door open for me. I could walk through it and do something different. Or I could remain on the ground of that drug den and do more drugs. Either path would lead to an early death, but dying in a blaze of glory sounded better than OD’ing in a dirty house where my body would rot for days before anyone noticed.

  Melanie got me hooked on heroin, so the Killing Joes could have a giant on their payroll. After my epiphany with Bronco, I turned my size against my club. But killing them wasn’t enough. I needed more if I expected the Executioners to let me into their world.

  Bronco Parrish didn’t know what to think of me showing up at the security gate of his fancy community in Elko. I told him I had a peace offering. Or maybe I claimed it was a thank-you gift. I can’t really remember. By the time I showed up in Elko, I hadn’t slept in days, and I was beyond wasted.

  Despite my rotten brain, I do remember the look on Bronco’s face when he looked in the duffle
bag filled with severed heads.

  “What do you want?” he asked, frowning while his men pointed guns at me.

  “A new home.”

  High and exhausted, I couldn’t find the words. Mostly, I wanted to explain how the mercy he showed me that day was more compassion than I’d gotten in my entire life.

  Accepting the duffle bag, Bronco let me crash at the apartment building the Executioners used for their club girls. I didn’t know how long he would allow me to stick around.

  Three years later, I’m still here. I’ve built a house in the swanky community where the Executioners live—Woodlands at Dry Creek. I wear their vest and even claimed the Sergeant at Arms title. I’m one of the Executioners. And I’m clean.

  But the claws of addiction never completely released me. When stress builds, I can’t see straight. Then I can’t think of anything except getting a fix. Sometimes, I don’t even need a trigger to set off that need. A happy day isn’t enough of an antidote to a decade-long toxic love affair.

  Pot helps the most. Enough booze to knock me on my ass does the trick too. If a craving is mild, I’ll hit the gym in my basement. Or if the weather isn’t too bad, I’ll ride Elko’s back roads until I settle down.

  During one of my drives, I come upon a young woman dancing on the side of the road to no music. Though she stops when I slow down and idle, she doesn’t run off or look embarrassed.

  I know right off that she’s one of the cult members from the Village. The Volkshalberd believe they possess a superior bloodline that must be protected from the modern world’s pollution. Living on a large acreage of land surrounded by woods, the weirdos keep to themselves.

  Like all Volkshalberd, this girl’s long, dark brown hair is tied into many braids. She wears an ankle-length brown skirt and a raggedy red shirt. Her tanned face is without makeup. Her feet are bare.

  I ought to keep riding. The Volkshalberd are bad news.

  Yet, the girl’s gaze is too direct. I start wondering what she’s doing out on the road. Have the Volkshalberd moved into prostitution? If so, they need to pick a better spot than this back road.

  “Whatcha doing out here?” I ask after shutting off my Harley and strolling to where she stands in the long grass.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, swaying in a way that makes me think she’s likely high.

  “I’m driving around Elko. What are you doing?”

  “I’m not driving around Elko.”

  I think to walk back to my bike and ride away. The Volkshalberd are a strange breed of people living off the grid. They believe in pagan gods and joyfully raise their kids in poverty. Beneath her baggy clothes, this young woman is likely underweight. Possibly, bruised and battered, too.

  But I don’t have a lot going on in my life, and she’s especially pretty.

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s your name?” she asks, and I wonder if she’s sick in the head.

  “Anders.”

  “Like Andy?”

  “No, like Anders.”

  She smiles at my irritation and sways in my direction. “You’ve got a lot of hair,” she says and reaches out to touch my beard. “You’re a blond bear.”

  There’s something innocent about her behavior. Women usually flirt hardcore with me or act as if I’m a horrifying monster. Well, some ignore me. I’ve never had one act as if I’m an animal she wants to pet.

  “What’s your name?” I ask softer as she circles me.

  “Pixie Yabo.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “My mom’s a pretty woman. She names the trees after spirit nymphs.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Neither do I,” she says and teases the stitching on my Executioners vest.

  “How old are you?”

  “I don’t know. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Is that a good age?”

  “Sure.”

  Pixie smiles big and tugs at the seam of my white T-shirt. “How come you stopped riding your rumbling bicycle? Are you going to kidnap me?”

  “Are you a kid?”

  “Everyone is someone’s kid.”

  “I guess,” I say as she circles me faster. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I want to keep Elko safe.”

  “From me?”

  “For you.”

  “Who’s gonna be unsafe?” Pixie asks, looking around in an exaggerated way. “I don’t see anything nefarious. Just you.”

  “Do you think I’m a bad guy?”

  “You’re very tall.”

  “Does that mean I’m bad?”

  “I don’t know. How come you stopped?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I like your beard,” she says and runs her fingers over my jaw. “You’re so tall. I can’t stretch high enough to rub the peak of you, mountain man.”

  I don’t know why, but I lean down so she can touch the top of my head. Pixie strokes my thick blond hair and then slides her finger down my nose.

  All right, fine. I know exactly why I lean down. I like when Pixie touches me. Her behavior isn’t sexual. Pixie’s a curious kid but also so pretty that I can’t take my eyes off her.

  I never think of touching her, though. There’s something very wrong about my big hands getting anywhere near this walking, talking flower. That’s what she is. The way she sways is like one of those flowers in the garden, bracing itself against a heavy wind.

  I stay another twenty minutes while Pixie dances around and asks questions about boots and then touches my beard again. I would have been happy to stay for hours, but she hears a noise in the woods and walks off. I feel discarded by how she doesn’t say goodbye. Then she looks back and waves. Pixie Yabo’s smile offers me a new addiction.

  I need to see her again. I come back the next day and then the next. I drive past that spot several times a day, always hoping to see my flower child again. I start to wonder if I imagined the entire thing. I used to hallucinate when I was high. Can the mind dream up shit without drugs?

  But then, one day, I find Pixie sitting in the grass, and I enjoy another fix. She asks about the scary face on my vest while sitting behind where I’ve plopped my ass. Pixie braids my shoulder-length hair while telling me how her mama is the most beautiful woman in the world, and her little brother is the most beautiful boy, and her sister is the most beautiful girl, and her papa was the most beautiful man.

  “But he died,” she says, sitting next to me and taking my hand. “You are such a big man. How come you got so large? Did you eat magic beans?”

  “My dad was big.”

  “My papa was a normal-sized man,” she says and touches her chest. “The bullet killed his heart.”

  That’s when I let myself touch her. Pixie stares up at the sunny sky as tears fill her big brown eyes. I take her thin hand in mine and try to comfort her.

  “I’m sorry about your papa,” I say, feeling dumb. I’ve never been any good at getting close to anyone. The people who should have loved me didn’t. That’s why being here with Pixie is a mistake. Well, that, and if Bronco or the club guys find out, they’ll kick my ass. Despite knowing better, I can’t leave her.

  “I’m sorry you have sad eyes,” she says and rests my hand on her chest. “You’re special, Anders. You are a ray of sunshine in a world of darkness. You are sad because the story this time is filled with pain. Not every version includes so much sadness. I’m sorry this one does.”

  Pixie explains how she wasn’t always a member of the Volkshalberd. Before her papa died, she lived in something called the Dandelion Collective.

  “We are all weeds,” she says while digging her toes into the dirt. “Alone, we are a nuisance. Together, we are a garden.”

  I don’t really understand that part, but she goes on to say how her other cult believed in alternative universes.

  “In every version of this world,
our stories are written a little different. Each choice changes our path. In this world, you are filled with sadness. In another world, your heart is filled with joy.”

  “But how does knowing that help me in this world?”

  “You get to live all the lives, Anders,” she says and rests on her back. “You live forever. My papa lives in another world now.”

  “How did your papa die?”

  “A government man in black with a mask and the letters ‘ATF’ on his jacket shot Papa for holding an artichoke.”

  “Why?”

  Pixie stretches her long, lean legs and stares up at me. I’ve quickly learned how she doesn’t answer questions that bother her.

  “I’m sorry he died,” I say, terrible at picking the right words.

  Pixie takes my hand and studies my fingers. I’m entranced by her calm demeanor, yet freaked out by how she doesn’t fear me. We’re alone in an isolated area. I’m a huge guy, and she’s scrawny as fuck. I could rape and murder her without a single concern about getting caught. Pixie ought to be wary of me, but she relaxes in the warm afternoon and touches me without fear.

  Though we don’t talk much more that day, I still hate leaving her. We only separate when she hears a horn in the distance. Again, she looks back and waves before disappearing into the woods. I wish I asked Pixie when she would be back.

  But I didn’t, so I drive by that road three times a day for a week before we’re together again. This time, I bring her a treat. She braids my hair and tells me that I’m beautiful and special. She hugs me from behind and insists I’m a ray of sunshine. Then she eats the orange and asks me what I did at sunset the night before. Once I start telling her about the movie I watched, she’s riveted.

  That becomes our new routine. I ask her to try to meet me every day. Sometimes, she shows. Other times, she can’t.

  “I missed you,” Pixie announces when she sees me. “You’re so beautiful.”

  I’m not a fool. There are times when I wonder if she only says those things to con me into bringing her stuff. So, I test her. After arriving, I don’t show her the treat, but she still says I’m a ray of sunshine and braids my hair.

  Yet, I’m afraid she’s messing with me. Or, despite her hugs and praise, she’ll never feel what I do. After only a few visits, I’m obsessed with Pixie. I can’t think of much else.