Checkmate With Bishop: A Hellions MC Novel by J. A. Hornbuckle Read Free Book Online

maybe not happy as much as content, I admitted to myself as I gathered up my purse and pashmina.  And I hated that thought. 
    Hated that with only two phone calls, Stan had rocked my boat, upsetting the life I had so carefully put together.  Had reminded me of the life we’d shared before and how very plain and lackluster my existence was in Casper.  Comfortable, yes.  Exciting in any way, shape or form?  Not so much.
    I stared at my reflection in the restroom mirror as I reapplied my lipstick, seeing the haunted look in my expression, which I hoped Chet would think was because of the imaginary ailment I’d invented in order to end our date and avoid his bed.  But as excuses went, it was a good one since Chet let me off at my front door with only a kiss on my cheek while murmuring, “feel better, darling.” 
    The quiet of my house was like a balm and found me relaxing almost as soon as I’d entered.  With J.R. staying the night with a friend, as was his typical Saturday night activity after spending a day helping out at Luscious, I had the whole of my home to myself.  An older place that had needed a lot of TLC and elbow grease to bring it up to date, but even I had to admit that when all was said and done, it was cozy and charming.  Just the right size for me and my boy even if there was only one bathroom.
    I walked towards my bedroom, casting my eyes over the rooms as I passed through them.  I had spent years updating the 1940’s built house:  replacing the roof, repapering the walls, updating the electrical and plumbing and had even redone all the tile-work myself.  It had, in bits and spurts, become a haven for both myself and J.R.   And never had I needed its peace more than I did that night.
    A night that found me yearning for something I didn’t want to name.
    After changing out of my summer dress and heels into my sleep shorts and tank top, I found myself digging into the deep recesses of my closet.  Searching for a small shoebox I’d shoved into the farthest, darkest corner which held the physical memories of a time long past, but which obviously hadn’t been forgotten.   I sat on my bed, my back to the pillows I’d piled against the headboard while I stared at the box, just the tiny cardboard rectangle that contained photographic evidence of my youth, of the young and hopeful girl I’d been.
    I remembered shoving things into it, grabbing and snatching the pictures in my haste to eliminate my presence from mine and Stan’s apartment.  Almost ripping the photos out of their frames as I’d packed.  Grabbing and snatching at the various mementos with tears streaming down my face as I moved as quickly as I could in order to just…get gone .  And in looking back at that moment in my life, my heart broke again only in that instance, it was for the young woman I’d been.  For her hurt, despair and anger at the death of her marriage.  At the demise of her hopes and dreams for a future that her young husband hadn’t shared.  And for the pain she’d both inflicted and had received in return.
    “You need a drink,” I announced as I continued to eye the box like it was some kind of feral animal plunked in the middle of my comforter.  “You can’t do this sober.”
    Which was more than telling since I couldn’t remember being drunk the whole of my time in Casper.  I wouldn’t allow my control slip, not there.  I had too many responsibilities to let go, to let loose.
    But there was no way I was going to be able to face the past, my past, stone-cold sober.  And I knew I had a bottle of tequila stuffed into the cabinet over the fridge.  An uncapped, unopened bottle that seemed to, even five years after being gifted, call my name at that moment.  With a backward glance at the shoebox, I made my way to the kitchen and swallowed a couple or three shots shuddering deeply after each hit my throat.
    The glow, though. 
    Damn, the glow of the remembered drink was heaven and took away the