Titan: EEMC, #2

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

 

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?

 

Titan is the second book in the Elko Executioners Motorcycle Club (EEMC) series and contains graphic sexual content, violent situations, harsh language, and drug use. The book is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9798224299997

Bijou Hunter

Romance Author of Contemporary, Suspense, and New Adult ~ Find me at www.bijouhunterbooks.com ~ Join my mailing list: www.bijouhunterbooks.com/mailing-list

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TITAN

EEMC #2

BIJOU HUNTER

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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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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

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

BIJOU 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.

My feelings aren’t sexual, really. Pixie is beautiful. Her dark brown eyes shine when she’s happy. And her lips are made for smiling. Pixie is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

But that’s not why I’m obsessed. Pretty women are a dime a dozen at the clubhouse. I never trust them. Even though the club bunnies in Elko are nice to me, I suspect they’re faking it. I’ve never been smart about women. I’m probably stupid by trusting Pixie too.

I need to stop visiting her. The Volkshalberd are weird and possibly dangerous. Plus, they’re giving my club trouble.

Bronco welcomed me into his community. He gave me a chance at a new life. He would be pissed to know about Pixie. I should stop coming here.

But once she’s out of my sight, I need to see her again. No other woman interests me. I can’t be with the bunnies. Only Pixie matters.

When I watch a movie or TV show, I memorize every detail to share during our next visit. I’m always thinking of treats to bring her. I worry about her eating enough at the Village. The Volkshalberd are so poor, and she isn’t in good graces with the top assholes.

Pixie shares things in passing about how the old people died in the winter, and the new people aren’t smart. Her mama thinks everyone will be dead by the end of the year. Pixie doesn’t seem scared when she says those things. She never acts bothered except when she speaks of her papa.

Yet, I hate her living at the Village. I’m also concerned about keeping her a secret from Bronco. I spend every waking minute worrying about one thing or the other.

Sooner or later, something will have to change.

PIXIE YABO

No one’s journey is easy. I’ve been blessed, though. I enjoyed a charmed life on a commune in Indiana. Our people—the Dandelion Collective—were my garden. My family lived there since both of my grandmamas were babies. I rarely had a bad day with the Dandelions. Every morning, I woke in our one-room house, next to my family and knew I had a full day of activities ahead of me. There was the Dandelion school and then free learning when I got older—reading, writing, herbal medicine, agriculture, and humanity’s struggles. Everyone in the commune was my friend. Any discord was dealt with in festive ways.

That’s not how the rest of the world works. Out here, people are angry and violent. We have to fight for food and shelter. I can’t turn my back on anyone. Everyone separates themselves by superficial categories.

Back during the attack on the Collective, I hadn’t understood why those government men were so angry or why one of them shot Papa. They attacked our home, yelling at everyone and waving around their big, black guns. I thought they were monsters.

I understand now. People in the outside world are often angry and cruel. The ones with the big guns do what they want, and the ones with no guns have to tiptoe around to avoid getting hurt. That’s how it is now in the Village.

When we moved to Ohio, I didn’t like the new commune. However, back then, there weren’t so many guns.

The Volkshalberd are hard people. They lack the sunshine in their hearts like at the Collective. My sister, Dove, misses the warmth of the old community. The Village is surrounded by woods except for the area with the crops. Where we sleep and eat is always shaded. Dove needs light to bloom. The Village offers little.

Leaving the new commune isn’t an option, though. Where can we go in a cruel world with angry people who want to hurt us? We don’t know where the other Dandelions went after the government made us leave the Collective. Mama said we couldn’t go back. The government tried to make us live in an apartment and wouldn’t tell us what happened to our friends. They told Mama that she would go to jail if she complained about Papa dying. Everything was very confusing.

All we had left was each other. Panicked at our situation, Mama took Dove and me to the Village after a man said we would be safe there. He promised the Volkshalberd were good people. Daniel was his name, but he died last winter from the flu. So many of the elders coughed themselves to death. With so many dead, a new Volkshalberd torch bearer took control.

That man has the dead eyes of a squirrel, Mama whispers to me when we first meet John Marks. The outsider looks weird with overcooked skin and a shiny bald head with stringy white hair that starts growing at his ears. Somehow, the odd stranger becomes the torch bearer for the Village. His ascension makes no sense. He’s only been in the Village for a few months. Plus, Marks doesn’t work, and he isn’t smart. He also smells like beets and can’t poop right.

People who can’t poop, Mama told me, are filled with negative energy. Be wary of them.

And I was very wary of John Marks. Even before he became our new torch bearer, he wanted to touch all the women. Mama told Marks that her body belonged to her Volkshalberd helpmate, Perry.

Only he can know me, Mama insisted.

Marks backed down. Despite liking to push people around, he’s very weak and cowardly. When she told him no, he claimed Mama was too old to continue his bloodline. Everyone knew he was lying since she gave birth to my brother, Future, two summers ago.

When Marks came for me, I told him I had been blessed with the gift of syphilis.

Can’t you get that fixed? he asked in his sloppy way of speaking as if his tongue is too big for his tiny mouth.

I prayed to the Eye of God, and I am now filled with syphilis, I said and spun around triumphantly. Do you want to be blessed, too, John of the Marks?

My ruse worked, and he decided he didn’t want to be blessed with my disease. Several other women came down with similar cases of syphilis after my triumph.

More recently, Marks noticed Dove, who has a new woman’s body. When he asked to see her alone, Mama screamed. Then I screamed. Then the other women screamed. I don’t think they knew what we were doing. Mama later said that the women don’t like John Marks because his bloodline is tainted.

The family is weak, Mama whispered as we cuddled at night in our tabernacle. Perry warned her to be quiet, but she shushed him. Her helpmate isn’t as strong and smart as my papa and mama. That’s why he does what she says. The Village shouldn’t honor a bloodline so foul.

I don’t care about bloodlines. When I have a baby, I only want it to have sunshine in its heart. Until Anders, I never consider a helpmate for the baby-making.

After Mama spies on the biker man and me, she says he is a grand sequoia. Mighty and unbreakable against the ages.

I don’t know if that’s true. Anders has sad eyes. I believe he’s very breakable. That’s why I give the big blond bear lots of hugs and tell him that he’s special. I don’t think he knows he’s a grand sequoia. Anders believes he’s a single weed in a world wanting to tear him out of the ground and throw him away.

I see so much beauty in the large man. Anders sits with me and talks while our skin warms in the sun. I shouldn’t sneak off, but the Village is tedious. We never have anything fun to do. The crops fail. We rarely build anymore. No one sings or dances. We just pray all day, and the prayers are filled with lies and greed.

That’s why I wander away from the Village. And one day, there is Anders. When I leave him, I don’t expect our paths to cross again. I never see the same people when I visit the stores in Elko.

But then, Anders returns. I find myself going to the same place, wondering if I will hear the growling of his big bike. Will he smile this time? He doesn’t always. Anders is sad in a way I don’t understand. He isn’t unhappy like I am over missing Papa. Anders suffers from the sort of melancholy that bleeds out of a person with a broken heart.

I don’t know who hurt this big man. I bet he got sad when he was little. Everyone’s vulnerable when they’re a kid, even if they’ll grow up to be as big as a tree.

Anders doesn’t tell me about his broken heart. He talks