Chapter 3

Ella

I was still shaking when I opened the back door and slipped into my kitchen. I was mortified that I'd pulled a knife on someone – let alone Pop's son – but I'd never dreamed he had been talking about me like that. I was mortified about that, too.

Once he got over his shock at finding himself on the business end of a filet knife, he'd probably been unpleasantly surprised to see me up close. I knew a man like him had his pick of hot, young things, and I doubted I was the kind of woman he would normally look twice at.

I recalled my conversation with Michelle, who was dating Pop's widowed son-in-law, Cowboy. She and Cowboy had been visiting Pop, and she had expressed an interest in the jams and jellies I made and canned. Pop had sent her next door to talk to me about buying some.

Michelle and I had hit it off right away. She was a couple of years older than me and was the principal at the school that Jagger's wife, Molly, worked at. We'd spent almost an hour chatting over coffee while she sampled the various flavors I had available. During that time, she'd given me the scoop on life at the clubhouse, including the women they referred to as "club bunnies and hangarounds ". I'd been mildly appalled, always assuming that the TV shows and books about bikers were exaggerating about the lifestyle. It turns out they were not, at least not when it came to their sex lives.

While I knew I looked good for my age and was fairly comfortable in my own skin, I was not a twenty-something woman with a taut, toned body and flawless skin. From a distance I probably passed as younger – at least based on what I'd heard King saying about me - but face to face with me in Pop's living room, there was no disguising the fact that I had a few more crow's feet and laugh lines than I was sure King was used to seeing.

I doubted the women at the clubhouse had to have their roots touched up every eight weeks either, to keep the gray hair at bay. I also doubted they carried a pair of tweezers in their purses just in case they discovered a random chin hair while they were out and about.

Yeah, that had been a shocking realization shortly after my thirty-sixth birthday. I had just dropped Mia off at a friend's house when I'd idly scratched an itch on my chin and made that startling discovery while waiting at a stoplight. I'd been staring with horrified disbelief into the tiny mirror on my car's sun visor when the car behind me had honked to let me know the light had turned green. I had immediately stopped at the Walgreens on the next block to buy tweezers and spent the next five minutes sitting in the parking lot plucking my chin and cursing the universe.

I didn't want to dwell on that memory, or on any of my other shortcomings – real or imagined – any longer. I grabbed my purse from the kitchen table and headed out the side door leading to the garage. I tried to focus on the list of things that I needed to pick up at the grocery, so that I didn't have to think about chin hairs, wrinkles, or looking like a crazy woman in front of Pop and his family.

It didn't take long to pick up bags of chips for my son and a couple of his football buddies, along with the makings for homemade pizzas. Those were always a hit with the guys from the team, most of whom acted like they'd never been fed whenever they came to my house. I added a tub of my favorite butter pecan ice cream to the shopping cart, just for the hell of it. I deserved it after the day I'd had.

Hunter and his friends pulled into the driveway just seconds after I parked my car in the garage, and to their credit, each of them grabbed a bag of groceries and carried it in without being prompted.

Thirty minutes later, I had pizza dough rising in a covered bowl, and three hungry seventeen-year-olds inhaling chips and homemade salsa as if they hadn't eaten in days. While I waited for the dough to rise, I ran upstairs to my bedroom to call Camille, needing to share the afternoon's drama and my embarrassment with my best friend.

Camille and I had met on our first day of college, when we'd been assigned as roommates in the freshman dorm and had been best friends ever since. She and Clayton had never really been close, but in the beginning at least, both had made an effort to get along. As time went on, that amicable fa?ade had crumbled, especially on Clayton's part. He'd started making disparaging comments about her, which had been the source of a number of arguments between us. Once I'd filed for divorce, the two had dropped all pretense, and didn't even try to be civil to each other on the rare occasions they'd crossed paths.

I slipped my phone out of my back pocket then flopped down onto my bed, making myself comfortable on my pillow as I waited for the call to connect.

"Hey, hon, what's up?"

I barely let her get her greeting out of the way before I launched into the story. "I made

a complete ass of myself with Pop's son today."

"The hunky silver fox?"

I groaned, deeply regretting telling her about the photos I'd seen of King. "Yep, that's the one.

I pulled a knife on him," I confessed quietly, and she screeched in my ear before I could say another word.

"You did what ? Why ? What did he do to you?"

I winced as I pulled the phone away from my ear. Jesus Christ, that woman could reach an octave that would shatter glass when she was upset. I groaned as I admitted, "He didn't do anything to me. I heard him say something and totally misunderstood the situation, so I pulled a knife on him."

"Where the hell did you get a knife, El?"

"Well, it wasn't like a switchblade or anything, for God's sake. It was a filet knife, and I sort of threatened to butterfly his dick with it."

"Um," Camille hesitated, then snickered. "OK, you're going to have to start at the beginning."

I told her what had happened, word for word, cringing as I relived the second most humiliating experience of my life. Since I'd actually walked in on my then-husband in our bed, balls-deep in a woman half our age, I figured that said a lot about how mortifying this afternoon had been for me.

"So, then I told him I'd split his cock down the middle, and he'd be pissing in two different directions for the rest of his life."

Camille, being the exceptionally good friend she was, didn't bother hiding her laughter. "As a nurse, I can tell you that the male anatomy doesn't actually work that way if you slice the urethra, hon, but I suppose you got your point across, no pun intended," she said between bouts of uncontrollable giggles.

I had to admit that my threat was pretty absurd, but King had seemed to take it seriously.

"Shit, Camille, I feel like an absolute idiot. I don't know how I'm going to face him or Pop, or anyone in their family ever again."

"Why, because you know King wants to do unspeakable things to you?"

"Well, that was before he got a good look at me and realized I'm a forty-year-old woman, not one of his young biker babes," I scoffed.

"Bullshit," Camille said succinctly. "You're a hot mama, no matter how old you are. That man would be damned lucky to have you give him a second look."

"Thanks for the pep talk, but I have a mirror. I know what I look like, and time is definitely catching up with me."

"That's just more bullshit. What you have is a fucking idiot of an ex-husband who did a number on your self-esteem. Dr. Douchebag should be horse-whipped for that, among other things."

I snickered at the nickname she and Kim had bestowed on Clayton during the divorce. I

wasn't sure which one of them came up with it first, but it had stuck. They were my ride-or-die best friends, and I could always count on them to make me feel better.

When I'd called Camille after walking in on Clayton and his side chick three years ago, she'd immediately offered to come over with duct tape and a shovel, promising to help me come up with a fool-proof plan for offing his cheating ass and getting rid of the body.

My cousin Kim had offered to send me a bottle of Luminol and a black light so Camille and I could check for blood spatter, just in case the police searched the house after his disappearance. Apparently, you can buy Luminol on Amazon. I didn't ask how Kim knew that. Plausible deniability, and all that.

I had declined their very kind offers to commit murder and mayhem, although I did still daydream about it from time to time. My favorite fantasy involved a rusty knife, Clayton's balls, and some hungry vultures waiting impatiently to pick his mangy carcass clean after he bled out from my amateur attempt at castration.

"Well, regardless of whatever self-esteem issues I may or may not have, I owe the man an apology at the very least. Maybe I'll bake him some cookies or something," I said, more to myself than to Camille.

"Go for it, El. After all, they do say that the fastest way to a man's dick is through his stomach."

I laughed out loud at that. "Um, I think the saying involves a man's heart, not his dick," I pointed out. Camille brushed aside my correction.

"Eh, close enough. Come on, you've got to admit, his dick would be a lot more fun."

I nodded and grinned because Camille was right. I was absolutely certain King's dick would be a lot more fun. Probably more fun than I could handle, if I were being honest.

"I think you need to take a walk on the wild side, hon. It's been a while since you had a good dicking-down."

" Camille ," I groaned, my humiliation now complete.

"I'm just saying," she protested innocently. "It's been way too long since you dated what's-his-face, the insurance guy."

"Scott," I reminded her, thinking of the man I'd dated for a few months last fall. I'd broken it off when it became clear that Scott was developing feelings for me which I knew I would not be able to return. He was a nice man, I cared about him, and the sex had been good, but I hadn't even been close to falling in love with him and didn't see it ever happening.

"Yeah, that guy. If you're not careful, you're going to end up with a vag full of cobwebs. So, get your ass in the shower, shave all the important bits, put on something naughty, and offer the man your cookies already."

I chuckled as I pictures her waggling her brows comically on the other end of the phone.

"You are ridiculous," I told her in exasperation.

"I think the word you're looking for is brilliant ," she corrected me smugly.

I was still laughing at her antics when I got off the phone a few minutes later. I heaved myself off the bed and headed back downstairs. The next couple of hours were spent helping Hunter and his friends make pizzas, then cleaning up the disaster zone left behind in my kitchen after we finished eating. I waved off their half-hearted offers of help, needing something to keep my mind off King – and his dick.

By the time Mia got home – literally one minute before her ten o'clock curfew – the boys were hunkered down in the basement watching a movie whose entire plot seemed to revolve around car chases and explosions. I was curled up on the couch in the living room watching one of the true crime shows I loved, still trying to forget the humiliating incident from earlier. The ice cream I'd bought at the store was helping, as was the generous serving of chocolate syrup I'd poured over it.

Mia fixed herself a bowl and watched the end of the show with me, and headed upstairs to her bedroom as soon as it was over. I checked to make sure the boys had enough pillows and blankets for the night, promised to make them French toast in the morning, and went up to bed as well.

I laid awake for longer than I cared to admit, replaying every second of my confrontation with King. I pictured his piercing brown eyes narrowed on me as he tried to get me to put the knife down, and I shivered as I remembered his deep, growly voice calling me sweetheart, after telling me not to apologize for protecting my kid.

I fell asleep with the sound of his voice running through my mind, imagining all of those things he'd said he wanted to do to me that were probably illegal in some states. When my cell phone rang early the next morning, I bolted upright in bed, my heart pounding at the sudden clamor. I grabbed the phone, cussing a blue streak under my breath when I saw my ex-husband's name on the screen coupled with the fact that it wasn't even eight o'clock yet.

"Clayton," I took a deep breath and greeted him, making a concerted effort to keep my tone civil.

"I wanted to make sure that the kids will be ready by noon, sharp." He rarely bothered himself with pleasantries anymore, and I rolled my eyes before answering.

"I'm sure they will be. They both know that you're picking them up for lunch, as usual. I'll be sure to remind them, though."

"Please do," he said in that condescending tone he'd perfected in recent years. It had always made me want to throat punch him, even before our divorce. "I tried to call them, but neither answered."

"I'm sure they're both still asleep, Clayton. It's only seven-forty-three on a Sunday morning, and Hunter had friends sleeping over. I doubt they'll show their faces until nine, at the earliest.

He snorted derisively. "Well, be that as it may, make sure they are ready on time and dressed appropriately. We have reservations for twelve-thirty at the club."

I rolled my eyes again. The kids absolutely hated going to the country club for these weekly lunches with their dad. Hunter, especially, was more of a burger and fries kind of kid and didn't much care for the highbrow fare offered at the club.

Clayton ended the call without another word, another rude habit he'd formed since our divorce. Apparently, ex-wives weren't worthy of basic common courtesy.

"Fucking pompous asshole," I muttered to myself as I flopped back against the pillows. I allowed myself a few minutes to plot the various ways I could kill him and make it look like an accident. A woman could learn a lot from those true crime shows.

After reminding myself yet again that I would not look good in a shapeless prison jumpsuit, I threw back the covers and got out of bed. I tossed on a pair of my usual yoga pants and a T-shirt with a sports bra underneath, then headed downstairs to get a start on breakfast.

By the time I had a platter of bacon ready and was sprinkling powdered sugar over a huge tray of French toast, Mia, Hunter, and his friends had stumbled into the kitchen and settled in around the table.

"You're the best, Mama C," Andrew told me with a grin as short time later, as he wolfed down his third helping. He'd been best friends with Hunter since kindergarten and spent as much time at our house as he did his own.

"Yeah, Mom, you're awesome," Hunter mumbled around a mouth full of food. He took a big gulp of milk to wash it down, before reaching for more bacon. I shook my head, smiling at him fondly. I would never admit it, but I was grateful that his looks favored my side of the family. In fact, he looked a lot like my dad had as a teenager, in those old photo albums I had carefully stored in the closet. He hadn't quite stopped growing yet and was already a little over six feet tall. He had broad shoulders and was quite muscular, thanks to his football conditioning workouts. I knew the girls went wild over his blue eyes and thick dark hair, which thankfully for him, didn't have the same wavy texture that Mia and I had to battle every day.

"Thanks for the breakfast, ma'am," Bryant told me quietly. He was the most reserved of Hunter's friends. He was also completely oblivious to the burgeoning crush Mia had on him, for which I was eternally grateful. I'd had to ask Hunter to stop bringing a couple of his teammates around quite so often after I'd caught them staring at Mia with a little too much interest. Hunter had not only quit inviting them over, but he'd also threatened to beat their asses if they didn't knock it off. I pretended not to know that he'd actually done just that with one of the guys two weeks ago. As a mother, I couldn't officially condone violence. Unofficially, I'd made him his favorite meal that night as an unspoken thank you.

I eyed my daughter carefully, hiding my grin behind my coffee mug. She had taken the time to shower, style her hair, and put on makeup and a cute outfit when she normally graced the breakfast table in a T-shirt and sweats, with pillow creases on her face and her wavy hair sticking up in all directions.

"You're welcome, guys. I'm glad you're enjoying it."

I left them to clean up the breakfast mess while I went outside for a quick yoga session, then headed upstairs to shower and get ready for the day. I took a little extra care with my own hair and makeup, then selected black leggings and a black and white-checked shirt that I knew flattered my figure.

It wasn't that I wanted to attract Clayton's attention at all – I shuddered at the thought – but it pissed him off to no end to see that I was flourishing without him. He'd been sure I'd come crawling back to him, miserable and begging for another chance. So, making sure I didn't look tired and frumpy when I knew I would see him was my way of mentally flipping him off. The sour look on his face always did wonders for my mood.

Some people might consider that petty. Those people hadn't had to walk into their bedroom to find their husband's receptionist riding him like a cowgirl and moaning like a porn star. Clearly fake moans, at that. Clayton had never, ever, been that good in bed. He was much too selfish to be a good lover, as I'd found out with the handful of men I'd been with since the divorce. Clayton had been my first, and I'd been shocked at how good sex could actually be when I'd had my first post-divorce fling. It had been a revelation, for sure.

I put the finishing touches on my appearance, then went back downstairs to check on the kids and our houseguests. Hunter was just getting ready to leave to drive Andrew and Bryant home, after assuring me he would come right back so he could shower and get ready for lunch with his dad. Mia was perched on the end of the couch, hoping to be noticed by Bryant before they left. She deflated a bit when he merely gave her a half-hearted wave on his way out the door.

I pretended not to notice her disappointment – knowing it would only embarrass her – then reminded her that Clayton would be there at noon. She groaned, whining yet again about having to spend the day with her dad. They had never really been close, even when she was younger.

Clayton hadn't known what to do with a daughter, and hadn't been overly interested in figuring it out, either. He preferred to focus on Hunter, pushing him into karate lessons and various sports, while I kept Mia busy with dance classes and piano lessons in the hope that she wouldn't notice her dad's lack of interest in her. It mostly worked, but they were left with a lack of connection that had worried me and had led to countless arguments with Clayton over the years.

Hunter, on the other hand, had been close with his dad when he was little. As he'd hit his teenaged years, though, he'd picked up on his Clayton's blatant favoritism and had rebelled against it. He and Mia sometimes fought like cats and dogs, but he adored his little sister and had always been incredibly protective of her. It didn't sit well with him when he realized what Clayton had been doing, and he'd started to pull away from his dad.

Neither one of our kids had been overly surprised or upset when I'd filed for divorce three years ago. I'd gone out of my way to make sure they didn't know the real reason, giving them a well-rehearsed speech filled with clichés about adults growing apart, and that just because we weren't going to be married, we still cared about each other and were committed to raising them together, blah, blah, fucking blah.

It had been a complete load of bullshit, and Clayton had proved it when he'd introduced them to his new girlfriend – Sabrina, the slutty receptionist – just two short weeks after I'd kicked him out.

Hunter and Mia, then fourteen and twelve, respectively, had been disgusted by their dad's actions, and whatever bond they'd had between them had been irrevocably broken. Now, they both barely tolerated Clayton, seeing him for a few hours every Sunday and overnight on Wednesdays just to keep the peace.

I busied myself in the kitchen while they got ready for their dad's arrival, taking care to wrap a large chef's apron around myself before I started my baking for the week, so that I didn't end up covered in flour and spatters of dough. I decided to put aside some of the baked goods so Pop could pass them on to King along with my deepest apologies for threatening to filet his dick, since I was pretty sure Hallmark didn't make a greeting card for that particular occasion.