Heart Like Mine (Reapers MC: Conroe Chapter, #3) Read online

  HEART LIKE MINE

  BIJOU HUNTER

  Copyright © 2019 Bijou Hunter

  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.

  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.

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

  Dedication

  Thanks to my three boys for their love;

  My mom for listening to me babble;

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

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Book Summary

  Jack Johansson is a temperamental, foul-mouthed biker who only reveals his softer side to his closest family. As a legacy member of the Reapers, he’s always gotten what he wanted. He even became the Conroe Chapter’s VP without breaking a sweat.

  But now he’s met a woman whose life has never been easy.

  Georgia just freed herself from an angry, oppressive man. The last thing she needs is to become a doormat again.

  But she’s drawn to the tatted biker despite realizing he might be more dangerous than the last man she trusted.

  Can the hotheaded hunk woo her wary heart?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  JACK JOHANSSON, AKA THE HOTHEAD

  GEORGIA RUSSO, AKA THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE JACK JAY AND GEORGIA NO LAST NAME COME CLEAN

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEY GET DOWN TO THE NITTY GRITTY

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE CHAPTER WHERE MAMA BEARS WORRY ABOUT MALE LIONS

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HOTHEAD COOLS HIS JETS

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE GANG’S ALL HERE

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE CHAPTER WHERE SUBMITTING FEELS SO RIGHT

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE SOUR MILK STINKS UP THE PLACE

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE PAST HAUNTS

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE DOORMAT HOLDS HER OWN

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STINK OF SPOILED MILK LINGERS

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THERE’S NO TURNING BACK

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY ENDS

  THE DOORMAT

  THE HOTHEAD

  OH, BY THE WAY, FROM THE HOTHEAD

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE APLOMB

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE HOTHEAD

  DAMAGED WORLD READING ORDER

  ABOUT BIJOU

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book takes place three years after Fast As You (Bubba and Soso) and months after Promise Me Heaven (Colton and Stella: Ellsberg Chapter #3)

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  JACK JOHANSSON, AKA THE HOTHEAD

  I’m not a big believer in fate or love at first sight. Relationships always struck me as essentially a contractual agreement between two—or more—people to maintain a unit. Love alone can’t salvage a marriage if the people aren’t willing to put in the work.

  That last bit might stem from my bitterness after watching my parents’ relationship fall apart. Mom and Pop claim to still love each other, but they choose to live apart. Romance is no match for bruised egos.

  I’ve never had much interest in marrying or having kids. Women can’t keep my interest. The sex gets boring, the woman gets clingy, and I head for the door. As their son, I’m angry to see my parents’ relationship crumble. But as a man, I struggle to understand how my parents survived thirty years together before shit took a dive. My relationships are lucky to survive for more than a few weeks.

  Mom swears I’ll be loyal once I meet the right woman. When she goes rainbows and kittens like that, I just nod. What else can I do? Even with her relationship on life support, she’s a romantic at heart. Mom raced into marriage and motherhood as soon as she hit adulthood. She can’t understand how little interest I have in making a family of my own.

  I get my fill of kids from my sister’s five. My 45-foot RV is parked on her property, not far from her remodeled farmhouse. Scarlet is nearly six years older than me, but we’ve always been close. When she wanted a fresh start after her divorce, she moved to Conroe. I joined her and established myself in the local Reapers chapter.

  If anyone might convince me that fated love exists, it’s Scarlet and her wife, Phoebe. On paper, my sister made more sense with her asshole ex-husband, who’s a biker in the Ellsberg chapter where our father is the VP. I’ve heard how chicks want to marry men like their dads, and Animal fit the bill. But my sister never seemed particularly happy. Their time together wasn’t a complete dumpster fire, though. Scarlet and Animal made two wild, charming daughters, who are now twelve and ten. Though on paper, the couple made sense, I sensed them falling apart from the beginning.

  Mainly because Scarlet’s heart belonged to Phoebe Barnes. The two grew up together, the daughters of men who knew each other for decades.

  Despite the early warning signs for my sister’s marriage, people—including my pop—blame Phoebe for its end.

  However, my tall blonde sister and her petite brunette wife remain in sync. I watch them sometimes and find myself a little jealous. Their fun, comfortable relationship appears worth the possibility of drama, and I suspect I’ve underestimated love.

  But then I’ll go on a date and try to imagine a lifetime with the woman across the table from me. Rather than curious or excited, I’m ready to bolt before the entrée arrives.

  I might not be capable of having what Scarlet and Phoebe share. Or even what my parents had before they allowed a lifetime of grudges to add up between them.

  Whether or not love at first sight is real, I’m now a big believer in “she got under my skin, and I can’t stop thinking about her” at first sight. At least, that’s how it was with Georgia.

  The first time I saw her was at the Beetle Bug Nostalgia Theater in nearby Barrymore. The place—with its 1950s vibe—offers themed movie nights. I dropped by occasionally to watch old horror or action flicks on the big screen. That night, I agreed to suffer through a rom-com with my nieces—Cady and Yancy, along with Phoebe’s eleven-year
-old daughter, Janis. Their best friend, eleven-year-old Haydee Davies, joined us.

  The four girls requested popcorn, and I needed a beer to deal with their giggling. Tweens are a special kind of obnoxious, but I love the hormonal hellions.

  “I’m here with my nieces,” I told the blonde beauty working behind the concession stand as she took my cash.

  Her heart-shaped face tilted to glance at the whispering girls. I watched her full lips curve into a half-smile as she handed me the change. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe ‘Mystic Pizza’ isn’t your favorite movie,” she teased in a raspy voice laced with humor.

  When her pale brown eyes focused on me, I couldn’t tear away my gaze. I decided right then to hit her up for a date. Of course, I wouldn’t normally flirt with a woman while on uncle duty. Plus, the chick was at work. But I saw something in Georgia’s eyes that demanded I learn more.

  Once the four girls settled into their seats and the movie started, I ducked out with the excuse that I needed to take a piss.

  Georgia wasn’t around, though. When I asked the guy at the counter about her, he said she left for the day.

  Too fucking slow, Johansson.

  The next time I saw Georgia, I refused to move so leisurely.

  The Funky Cold Cowpoke is a honkytonk in Barrymore that I’d visited before. I preferred to hang out in places where people didn’t know who I was. Mostly, I was hoping to get into a fight, and no one dared challenge me in Conroe.

  Georgia was nearly unrecognizable out of her red and gold theater uniform. Dressed in blue jeans and a baby blue T-shirt, she looked casual with her long, blonde hair falling past her shoulders.

  Surrounded by women wearing skimpier outfits, the petite beauty might have disappeared into the crowd. When she smiled, though, I saw no one else.

  With no kids to slow me down and Georgia already on her second beer, everything should have fallen into place.

  “I remember you,” was my pathetic attempt at a pickup line.

  I’ve been flirting with chicks since long before I snagged my first girlfriend in sixth grade. I normally ace the pickup part. The relationship shit is where I flop. But with Georgia, I couldn’t be smooth to save my fucking life. Yet despite my stumbles, she let me kiss her.

  As soon as I saw Georgia, I planned to ask her out on a real date to the great new steakhouse in Conroe. Except the bar was so fucking loud. We could barely carry on a conversation. Then I fell into old habits like giving her the name “Jack Jay.”

  The name Johansson is notorious in Conroe and Ellsberg, leaving women seeing dollar signs. When chicks learned I was the VP of the Conroe chapter of the Reapers Motorcycle Club, they assumed I was either a thug or a bad boy fuck-toy.

  I learned to keep my shit private. If my good looks and winning personality weren’t enough to hook a chick’s interest, I walked away.

  That night, I told Georgia what I told all women. My name was Jack Jay, and I worked in lawn care. I should have been square with her, but I kept getting distracted by all the fucking noise. Especially by a dozen women celebrating a bachelorette party at a nearby table. They kept hooting like a bunch of owls on crank, throwing me off my game.

  Talking wasn’t an option. Instead, Georgia and I kissed. Her eager lips left me hard and flustered. In my head, I had big plans for us. A real date, maybe even a relationship. This was a woman I wanted to know.

  When our lips parted, Georgia gave me a look I couldn’t read. Sporting flushed cheeks and a bold smile, she took my hand and guided me out of the bar. I didn’t care where we were going. Whether from the booze or my lust, I couldn’t think straight.

  We climbed into the back of her SUV and folded down the seats. Shit got wild fast. The space was too small, and I could barely move without banging into something. Every time I smacked into the roof or door, Georgia laughed and kissed me harder.

  I remember how her jeans got caught on her tennis shoes as we wrestled to free ourselves from our clothes. The SUV bounced from our attempts. The bigger of a train wreck our make-out session became, the more Georgia laughed.

  The humor in her gaze intoxicated me. Then she stole my common sense when she sighed with relief at the feel of my hands on her skin.

  I imagined a scenario where she wasn’t brazenly fucking a stranger in a car but was a woman new to the world. Instead of me being a horny pig, I was her guide to a life she never knew possible. Yeah, that’s why she looked so surprised when she came. No man ever accomplished what I did. I was fucking special.

  The booze made everything rational. The next day, I wondered why we were in such a hurry. What happened to finesse and the steakhouse idea? Why hadn’t I even learned her last name?

  We exchanged numbers post-fuck, and Georgia said she would call me. She didn’t, though. I gave it a week, not wanting to seem like a desperate bitch. Then I called her and got no answer. Tossing my dignity aside, I dialed her number a dozen fucking times a day without luck.

  Yep, I was ghosted! I didn’t even think it was possible for a woman to get bored of me before I got bored of her. Fuck Georgia for blowing me off!

  Except she was the only woman I ever literally dreamed about. The blonde showed up every night, taunting me with what I lost. Daytime offered no escape, either. She always lingered in my thoughts.

  I tried to track her down at the theater, only to find out she no longer worked there. I bribed the manager to give me her address, but she was gone in the wind. The people who rented her a basement apartment said she and her kid took off in the night.

  Was Georgia in trouble? Or was she trouble? Should I stop thinking about her? Yes, yes, and yes.

  But I couldn’t let her go. For six fucking months, I’ve been hoping to find Georgia. Every place I go, I scan the faces for hers. Working at the theater wouldn’t have paid much. The basement apartment was cheap. Georgia didn’t have the cash to go far, meaning she must be in one of the nearby small towns.

  I needed to know her story. Even if she was a bitch and I ended up ghosting her, I had to know she was safe. Something about the way she flinched that night at the bar made me think she’d been smacked around in her life. Was she running from someone?

  I became convinced I’d never learn the answers. I decided she hooked up with a guy who took her out of the area. I didn’t understand why she hadn’t asked me for help that night if she was so desperate. Did she think I wouldn’t care? Or maybe she figured a gardener lacked the money to help? I didn’t know the answers, and not knowing was killing me.

  Then I stumble upon her. Not in a sea of faces out in the world, but in Scarlet’s kitchen. Hair now brown, Georgia stares back at me.

  Coming face to face with the woman I’ve spent months searching for creates more questions. Well, mainly two—who’s the fucker that gave her a black eye and is he the same one who put the baby in her belly?

  GEORGIA RUSSO, AKA THE DOORMAT

  Life doesn’t offer do-overs. Some people can rebound from their mistakes. Others crash and burn. I’m safely in that second group.

  But I’m free now. Desperately poor and living on the edge some days, but freedom ain’t free.

  Rebel and I sleep in our SUV when it’s cold and raining. We camp in a small tent when the weather is warmer.

  It’s not ideal. We move around a lot. Money is getting tight. Danger is around every corner.

  But I’m happier than I can ever remember being. Soon, everything good will end. Time is running short. Eventually, the Hegseth family will find us or the law will take away my son. Until then, we’re free.

  Rebel and I clean up in restrooms at fast food restaurants and gas stations. We don’t use the same ones often, hoping to keep under the radar. During the day, we play at parks or walk around neighborhoods. We eat whatever’s cheap. A dollar burger isn’t much for two people, but we make do.

  Our life sucks. I’m aware of that. I’m impulsive and make shitty decisions, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. If I’d stayed in school, I
would have been at the top of my class. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant at fourteen and married a violent older man, I might have gone to college. I had the brains but always lacked common sense.

  Rebel is the opposite. He’s horrible at reading and struggles with math, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut and how to speak up. He has a good sense for people. I think if he can get even barely educated, life won’t be horrible for him.

  Soon, he’ll be back with the Hegseth family, though. I can only hope his father, Patrick, stays away from the boy he hasn’t wanted in years. While Marsha Hegseth is no saint, she’ll keep her grandson fed and a roof over his head.

  Or maybe Rebel’s uncle and aunt will take him in if the courts decide Patrick isn’t safe. Not that the Hegseth family cares for what the law says. However, Rebel is old enough to speak for himself. Maybe Child Services will listen.

  It’s just as likely the system will screw Rebel, which is why I don’t ask for help. Even living in the old but sturdy SUV, I’m not ready to lose him. My boy would have to return to Milkweed alone too. Months ago, I could have begged for mercy from Patrick’s family. They’ll never let me back now.

  I rub my belly where the baby kicks. Patrick isn’t a smart man—despite how much he brags about his untapped intelligence—but he can do basic math. He’ll know the baby isn’t his, and his family will insist I get rid of it.

  Rebel reaches over to pat my belly, smiling at the thought of his brother or sister. He wanted the last baby to be a boy. That one hadn’t survived Patrick. I won’t let the asshole near this one.

  “I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl,” Rebel says to me like he does most nights.

  I suspect he believes wanting a brother jinxed his unborn sibling. At nine, he understands what kind of man his father is, but he suffers from a kid’s self-absorbed thinking.

  “Don’t forget to tell the law about your arm,” I remind him before we sleep every night. “Tell them how it happened. Try to cry. Make them care.”

  Rebel nods when I remind him. The words are in his head now, but once a grown-up gets stern with him, he could freeze up.