Recovery by Abigail Stone Read Free Book Online Page A

Master of arms. What that meant was that his children would be expected to grow up in the club, just as he and Trisha had.
    When Chase and Richie were growing up, they spent practically all of their time around their father and his brothers, the Diablos. They were family, as thick as blood could make them, and it was always stressed to Chase that he would one day be expected, as the older of the two boys, to take the reins when his father, the clubs acting president, no longer could.
    “I see a lot of myself in you,” Chase’s father once said, “just try not to make the same mistakes I did when you're running this club one day.”
    There it was. The sordid warning that lingered over Chase’s head his entire adolescence.
    “Don’t be me,” his father said, “be better.”
    As his father’s first child, a son, Chase’s future had been planned for him long before he was even born, and Chase wasn't ready to subject any children of his own to the same fate.
    “What are you thinking Trish?”
    Chase stumbled out of the shower, his fist making contact with the wall above the toilet. He cursed as blood surfaced on his knuckles, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around himself. He was fed up. Tired of beating the subject of having children into the ground. Tired of Trisha sabotaging his efforts to keep it from happening.
    “We talked about this,” he bellowed, watching as his wife cowered naked in front of him.
    She wouldn't fight back. She wouldn't argue. She never did.
    Frustrated and horny, Chase stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind himself.
    “You do this on purpose and you know it!” Chase yelled. He grabbed a pair of jeans from his bedroom floor and pulled them on. A rustling noise sounded from behind him. He turned around. Trisha was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, dripping wet with tears surfacing in the corners of her blue eyes. She held a towel in place around herself as she stared at Chase, a look of guilt mixed with sadness etched across her pretty face.
    It figures, Chase thought to himself. The one thing his wife had ever asked him for was also the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to give her. He felt bad, but that didn’t justify Trisha’s actions.
    “No kids, Trish!” he yelled, trying to get ahold of himself. “I made that clear. I thought you understood that!”
    Trisha was visibly shaken before him. She took a seat on the bed, wringing her towel through her hair.
    “It wasn't intentional,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I promise. I – I’ve just been stressed out lately.”
    “I forgot...” she trailed off.
    Chase was done listening. He didn't believe her. He pulled on a clean shirt, slipping his feet into his boots and bending down to lace them up.
    “I'm going out,” he said, squaring his shoulders and walking towards the door. He turned around, giving Trisha a final chance to come clean, but she wouldn’t budge.
    Sighing, Chase grabbed his wallet and his keys from on top of his dresser, sliding them in his pockets and grabbing his cut from where it sat tossed over an armchair in the corner of the room. He pulled it on, looking over at Trisha.
    “Don't wait up.”

BAD BRAIN
    "I used to be in show biz
I used to have forturn an fame
I used to have pleasure an pain
I used to have a name."  
    ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

     Layla drifted in and out of a lucid, sweaty sleep. Every now and then, she would open her eyes, hoping to see her mother Emily, but she was met instead by the peeling walls of Leo’s cabin. Layla sighed. Her mother was the only person who ever seemed capable of pulling her through her withdrawals. It wasn't that she was particularly warm or loving. She wasn't, but she was determined. She did what she had to do to keep her daughter in line and making money. The truth was, Layla was Emily’s commodity – one she had no problem offering up to the highest bidder. Agents, Production Companies, Directors. It didn’t