Frost: EEMC, #3

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

Conor "Frost" Jessup was groomed since childhood to take over his uncle's president spot in the Elko Executioners Motorcycle Club. But Bronco doesn't seem in any hurry to hand over control, and a restless Conor finds himself rethinking his future in Elko.

Enter Monroe Hobbs. Twenty years ago, her father—VP of the EEMC—and her mom made an oopsie baby. When the old ladies found out that a club girl was preggo by one of their men, they warned her to get of Elko or else.

All grown up, Monroe arrives in town to meet the father she heard about her entire life. Plus, she's on the run from her violent uncle who expects her to marry a stranger. And her mom is also currently missing. Monroe shows up with a ton of problems and zero ideas on how to fix them.

Enter her knight in shiny leather. Conor offers more than protection. But he'll need a feisty chick capable of withstanding his ballbusting mother.

How will Monroe handle a community full of troublemaking women? Can Lowell embrace his surprise daughter? Will the president's crown fit on Conor's handsome head? These questions and more will be answered in the final book of the EEMC series.

Frost 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: Dec 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9798224681990

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

Book preview

FROST

EEMC #3

BIJOU HUNTER

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Copyright © 2021 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

Photo Source: Depositphotos

Cover Copyright © 2021 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: OUTRUNNING LEGACIES

CONOR FROST JESSUP

MONROE HOBBS

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

PART 2: FANTASY BECOMES REALITY

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

PART 3: CONGRATS, IT’S A GIRL!

CONOR

MONROE

PART 4: FUCKING IS FUN

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

PART 5: AIN’T NO PARTY... REDUX

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

PART 6: PAPA, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

PART 7: QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PAST AND FUTURE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

PART 8: FAMILY AFFAIR

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

PART 9: UNWILLING TO SAY GOODBYE

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

MONROE

CONOR

PART 10: EPILOGUES

MONROE

CONOR

BIJOU READING ORDER

ABOUT BIJOU

PART 1: OUTRUNNING LEGACIES

CONOR FROST JESSUP

Some days, I just want to run. How easy would it be to bail on this life? I could jump on my motorcycle with a few things packed in a bag and just keep fucking going. Start over somewhere else. Be someone besides Billy Wheels Jessup’s son or Bronco Parrish’s nephew. I could join another motorcycle club or start my own. I could pick my men, fight for turf like my father did decades ago with Bronco, Rooster, Akron, Drummer, and Lowell. None of this inheritance shit where I have dozens of eyes looking over my shoulder, scrutinizing my every move, nearly begging me to fail.

People around here believe I’ll take over the Elko Executioners Motorcycle Club one day. After Bronco is ready to step back, and before my cousin, Wyatt, can grab the president spot for himself. I only have to be patient.

Once I get my coronation, they’ll let me stand in front of them and have my every fucking breath analyzed. Am I doing what Bronco would do? Would my dead father be proud?

When I think of the Executioners expecting me to be my father’s son rather than myself, I’m ready to disappear into the world. I have money, a fake ID, and a burner phone. Leaving would be easy.

My mother is healthier lately—not so paranoid or clingy and with fewer bouts of panic and rage. Barbie Parrish Jessup will never be normal, of course. No one walks off mental illness. The pills have helped, but she only started them to appease her younger brother, Bronco.

Deep inside, Mom doesn’t believe she needs them. She claims we’re the ones with the problem. Yet, she knows if she quits taking the pills, Bronco will close himself off from her. The man lives right next door. For over four decades, he’s been the center of her universe. Losing Bronco’s respect and attention is too much for her to bear. That’s why she religiously takes her pills, whether she thinks they’re necessary or not.

In the past, if I bailed on Elko, my mom could have been left emotionally crippled. But she can handle my absence now. Barbie has friends, hobbies, and shit to do that doesn’t involve me. I could bail on Elko and the Executioners without her life changing too much.

Of course, the reality is Bronco doesn’t want to retire, no matter what he says. The club runs smoothly. He rarely needs to bust skulls anymore. My uncle can sit on his ass and still be in charge. He feels pressure to retire because my cousin wants to be the next president. If Wyatt weren’t Bronco’s nephew, he’d have been dead years ago. Instead, his bullshit festers, creating a false sense of time running short. Otherwise, Bronco could remain president for decades.

Though no one really needs me to stay in Elko, I act as their security blanket. I’m the one guy willing to take on Wyatt for Bronco’s job and the person capable of soothing Mom when her pills don’t smooth out all her hard, paranoid edges.

I used to believe I wanted to be president. For years, I’ve prepared to take over. But the time never comes. Life in Elko is easy, especially in our private community—the Woodlands at Dry Creek.

I often think about building a house on my lot in the community’s newest section, but what’s the point of moving out of Mom’s place? With only two of us in a four thousand square foot home, we stay out of each other’s way. Except for those dark times when she follows me around or has a meltdown. Then, people expect me to fix her.

Managing Barbie used to be my father’s job, but he wasn’t built for such a responsibility. Billy Jessup was a selfish man who refused to pull his head out of his ass long enough to organize himself, let alone his paranoid wife. When things were good, my parents’ chemistry lit up a room. When things went south, my father hid at the Executioners’ clubhouse while my mom panicked over every little noise. I would sit with her at an upstairs window, watching for any signs of Wheels returning to the Woodlands.

Barbie would speak in hushed tones, afraid of spies. People in Elko hated the Parrish family. My father was a violent man, and they were right to hate him. My mother was a crazy twat, and they were right to hate her, she would whisper, tightly holding my hand as she used her other one to look through binoculars. But Bronco, Bambi, and I made more for ourselves. This town will never forgive us for digging our way out of the gutter.

As a child, I pictured my grandmother as a bad person. When I got older, I realized she was just sick like my mom. People in Elko don’t treat mental illness as a medical condition. There’s no sympathy for the wackos or the weirdos. My grandmother spent her life descending deeper into psychosis. When she died, no one really cared.

I never wanted Barbie to be tossed aside like that. But people couldn’t deal with her. Not my father or my uncle or my aunt or the dozen-plus club men and their old ladies. People feel no pity for the noise in my mother’s head, and I’ve always hated them a little for that.

That was one reason I considered ditching Elko. I would never be anything more than Billy and Barbie’s boy here. Traveling the world, though, I could be anyone. I had a bag packed and often imagined myself taking a flight to somewhere thousands of miles away. I dreamed of sitting on the beaches of Thailand or exploring the woods in Japan or climbing the hills of Germany. The opportunities are endless for a guy with cash in hand. I was ready to leave Elko behind.

My travel plans ended as soon as my dad found himself outnumbered in a honky-tonk outside of Cleveland. Wheels was supposed to be visiting his estranged sister. Before returning home, he stopped at a bar for a few drinks with no reason for concern.

Back then, the Killing Joes Motorcycle Club was a shitty group of addicts and losers working out of Cleveland. One of them recognized my father as a member of the Executioners and called his buddies over to jump him. Wheels Jessup didn’t go down easy, fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. Unable to beat him in a fistfight, they filled him with bullets.

Elko shuddered under the weight of Dad’s death. Bronco seemed stunned that his long-time friend and brother-in-law was dead. Mom lost her mind. She became a caricature of those over-the-top women in movies who throw themselves onto the casket as it's lowered into the grave. Our community never truly recovered.

The initial randomness of my father’s death is probably what fucked up everyone. He didn’t die in a blaze of glory for the Executioners. Dad went down like a sucker in the parking lot of a shitty bar miles from home. Of course, we learned later how the Killing Joes wanted to control Elko. His death was related to the Executioners. He fought hard to survive. But, by then, this community’s psyche was forever changed.

The club’s founding members began worrying about what would happen when they died. Was this community strong enough to stand with only the younger members? Who would lead once Bronco couldn’t?

The man in charge has no sons to naturally step up. A majority of the Executioners are in their 50s and 60s, with Rooster approaching his seventieth birthday. The younger guys are viewed as spoiled, me included.

Except I sure as fuck don’t feel pampered. All my life, I’ve felt under pressure. I often woke up stressed as a kid. After all, my mother’s personality can be explosive, and my father ignored problems he didn’t want to confront.

Sometimes, Barbie would lose her shit and follow a seemingly indifferent Wheels around the house. Fleeing her paranoid rage, I’d sneak out of our place and hide out at my uncle’s home. Aunt Bambi’s house offered no sanctuary by then. Even as a kid, Wyatt viewed me as competition.

Comfort isn’t any easier to find as a grown man. My mom resents how I look like the man she lost. I’m a never-ending reminder of her broken heart.

My mother sees the past when she looks at me while my uncle views his replacement. No longer Nephew Conor, I’m the guy who’ll take his spot in the future. Every fucking move I make is reviewed and filed away in his head.

Which was why I wanted to bail Elko. Bronco might be president for several more decades. He’s in good shape. His main guys are ancient, but he can hire muscle to do the heavy lifting. No, my uncle was in no hurry to retire. If I bailed, I wouldn’t be letting down the family, our club, or this town.

I don’t owe them anything, either. I’ve worked harder than the other young guys, even living under pressure they never felt. I did my time and made my money fair and square.

Yet, I didn’t run. I knew once I bailed, even for a few months, my spot at the top of the club would come crashing down. Afraid to make a decision I couldn’t walk back, I stuck around.

But I felt restless. Unable to run or find any peace, I turned my anger on the remaining Killing Joes' members. My partner in crime for that mission is a dirty little secret in my family. My half-sister was created during a regular fling between a former club girl and my playboy dad. Since she was little, Aja lived in another state with another crew of criminals. For years, we’ve had a low-key relationship. Everyone in the Woodlands knows Aja exists, but no one dares to speak of her and piss off my mom.

A few years back, when I planned to hunt down what remained of the Killing Joes, I asked if Aja wanted to help. Ready to get her hands dirty away from her family’s protection, she agreed. During our month-long hunt, I got myself centered. Grew up some, too. Having a blade sink into my stomach in a Cincinnati shithole certainly offered me a whole new perspective.

Plus, Aja showed me how to own my needs. Back in her hometown, she felt pressure to hook up with a guy in her father’s club. She wanted him but becoming a man’s property was a no-go.

Know your boundaries, she said when I was healing up from my gut wound. Everyone only gets one life. Your uncle got his, and your mom got hers. Our father lived a long life. You’re two-and-a-half decades into your life, Conor. Do you want to waste the next two worrying over what other people need?

If Aja managed to stand up to her people, I figured I could do the same with mine. Except she sensed I would return to my old habits once I returned to Elko.

You have no safe space, she told me after we finished off the last man involved in our father’s death. You’re not safe in here, she said and tapped my head and then my chest. Or here. You need to find someone or someplace to feel safe, or else you’ll burn out long before you’re president. Get it?

I feel safe in Elko.

No, you don’t, she said, smiling at my obvious bullshit. I don’t know if you should ditch that town or if you’d feel just as lonely somewhere else. I just know you won’t live long enough to get old if you never find a place where you can lower your guard.

Taking Aja’s advice, I returned to town with newfound confidence. My renewal only lasted a year. Back in Elko, everyone has their place, and I found myself restless again. Mom is often out of the house, always busy with her hobbies. The club runs too smoothly for me to fix anything. These days, I’m ready to bail again.

I’ve already got one foot planted out the door when Monroe Hobbs enters my life.

The curvy blonde shows up at our clubhouse—Rooster’s Tavern—claiming to need a job. Her evasive answers give the impression she wants to become a club bunny. Women as hot as Monroe are a rarity. Of course, the club gives her a shot.

As soon as our eyes meet, I want her. No one else can have a taste. I can’t imagine her passed around by my club brothers. That’s why I call dibs before Monroe and I even share a conversation.

Despite being apparently named after Marilyn Monroe, she reminds me more of Bridget Bardot with a 1970s Debbie Harry haircut. Her mane is thick, her brown eyes lively, and her lips are made for blowjobs. I nearly jizz my pants one night when I catch her nursing a beer bottle. Even a glimpse of the woman sends my dirty thoughts into overdrive.

Like all club girls, Monroe moves into the small apartment building situated just outside the Woodlands’ gated community. The Overlook is run by a former bunny named Jena, who sorta aged out on party time. Most bunnies stick around for a few years before moving on to the next stage of their lives.

These days, Jena acts as a den mother to the eight women who party with the Executioners and work at our clubhouse and other various businesses. Monroe picks up shifts at Rooster’s along with the restaurant named after my aunt—and Rooster’s wife—Bambi’s Bar & Grill.

Despite calling dibs on Monroe, I don’t make a move for her immediately. She’s clearly hiding secrets that might ruin our potential fun. I’m too fascinated by the fantasy of my mystery girl to ruin shit with reality.

Over the next few weeks, I notice several facts about the hot blonde. She sings along to every song. Even when Wyatt’s bitchy redheaded wife—DeAnna—demands she stop, Monroe can’t help mouthing along with the words.

I also realize she’s waitressed before. Not in a restaurant, though. The food orders trip her up. However, she can carry a heavy tray of booze without hesitation.

Monroe’s from up north. Not Canada, but one of the states where people sound like extras from Fargo. I caught her accent slip in occasionally when she took orders.

She isn’t really a blonde. Even before her roots started showing, she fessed up one night when I cornered her in the nearly empty bar.

I’m not really blonde, she blurted out while staring up at me.

I’m not really this sexy. Like, I have to brush my hair to get this hot.

Monroe offered me a heavenly smile that night, but nothing came of it. Eventually, I asked Jena for Monroe’s backstory. No doubt, the bunnies have hit her up for details. Apparently, Monroe always keeps things vague. When pushed, she claims she’s hiding from an ex-boyfriend. She even asks to be paid under the table to avoid creating a credit trail.

The violent ex-boyfriend story makes sense. One day, I notice Monroe out with her roommate, Amity, and a few other bunnies at the grocery store. She wears a baseball cap and sunglasses despite the cloudy skies. Though Monroe smiles and laughs a lot, I catch how she’s always aware of her surroundings.

So far, we’ve only shared a few moments alone at the bar. Usually, one of us is headed to the restroom or leaving while the other is going in the opposite direction. I’d say her name, and she’d say mine. Those two words held the promise of a future together.

Very aware I want her, Monroe waits for me to make my move. But I can’t stop hesitating. This need for Monroe feels too good. The anticipation, the what-ifs, and the fantasies of her naked will go away once I get to know the real person. Reality rarely lives up to my dreams.

Mostly, I’m afraid her secrets might be a dealbreaker. Much like Aja walked away from a relationship that wouldn’t work, I choose to pace myself with one that’ll likely flop.

Yet, I’ve figured out one of Monroe’s secrets. For weeks, my club brothers, their wives, and the bunnies gossiped about how Monroe is hot for the Executioners’ VP, Lowell Sinema. They’ve tormented me plenty about how my crush has a thing for older men. I always smile at their ribbing, knowing they’ve got it all wrong.

Monroe doesn’t watch Lowell like a woman in lust. I’m unsure how no one considers what seems obvious to me. Denial, probably. Decades of fucking bunnies have led to several surprise kids. The club girls come and go, with an average of six around at a time. Over my lifetime, there’s been maybe thirty. Any of them could have gotten knocked up and left town without mentioning the pregnancy to her biker baby daddy. Especially if the father was married to a ballbuster like most of the club’s old ladies.

This is one more reason not to force things with Monroe. If she and I don’t work, I’ll be in a weird position. If I bail on Elko, how many people will think Monroe sent me running? Does that mean I have to stick around for a while to protect her reputation? How long is enough? I don’t need more problems to solve.

So, I wait and wonder. Until one night, late after most people have left, I corner her in the bar. Monroe’s eyes widen and warm when she realizes I’m blocking her path. I say her name. She says mine. Unable to wait any longer, I have to enjoy a taste.

I lean down and plant a quick, deep kiss on her naturally swollen lips. Monroe leans closer, allowing me to take us to the next level. Why don’t I have her jump on the back of my Harley and go for a ride? We could finally get down to the core of what’s happening between us. I know she wants me. While she stares at Lowell in an overly obvious way—just begging for him to notice—her glances at me are sneakier. I’ve caught her checking out my ass more than once.

Yet, I end the kiss and back off after nearby people laugh and break the spell. I don’t want an audience. I also become very aware of how Monroe is living a lie. Her truth could ruin everything. Best to wait until she admits why she really moved to Elko.

I’m probably too passive. I could have taken charge weeks ago. When I do finally start pushing things, my moves go sideways. Never did I think Topanga would slap Monroe. Lowell’s wife isn’t normally violent, and she seems to understand how he might cheat on her with the bunnies.

However, I’m the one who set this in motion. For weeks, everyone whispered about Monroe and Lowell. Yet, he never reacted to her staring. Not even to tell her to fuck off. I suspect he’s embarrassed by her behavior and ignoring it feels easier. Except Monroe’s too chickenshit to say anything, either. Nothing would ever happen at this rate.

That’s why I filled my mother’s head with worries about Monroe going Fatal Attraction on Lowell. I knew Barbie Jessup wasn’t capable of keeping shit to herself. First, she gossiped to her sister. Since Bambi was even less able to keep her mouth shut, she soon told Bronco’s wife, Lana, and my mother’s best buddy, Fairuza. While the latter didn’t care who’s fucking who, the former was tight with Topanga. Soon, Lowell’s wife showed up at Rooster’s in the evening and refused to leave. Old ladies never hang out at the clubhouse at night, but Topanga plopped her ass down tonight and just stuck around.

I expected her to make a scene with Lowell, not Monroe. But I misjudged how insecure Topanga was about her man and the new, hot thing at the Overlook.

That’s why Topanga lost control of her insecurities and slapped an unprepared Monroe across the face.

Sure, I feel like a dick for setting in motion this moment. But it does the trick. Monroe spits out what I’ve suspected for weeks. She doesn’t want to fuck the club’s VP. He’s just her long-lost daddy.

Well, now what?

MONROE HOBBS

I’m not a stupid person. Though I’m not winning any genius awards, I do enjoy my Hawking-moments. Like choosing to run away from home to meet a stranger. Yeah, that was a real brainiac move.

Why am I hiding in the most obvious place? Is there a reason why I don’t out myself with Lowell? Will I ever learn to walk well in heels?

Elko doesn’t look like much to the outside world, but the Ohio town is run by the Executioners Motorcycle Club. According to my mom, this is where she once lived. She worked at a bar dubbed Rooster’s, lived in an apartment with other club girls, and got knocked up by a sexy biker named Lowell Sinema. Then, one of the club wives—referred to as honeys or the even more charming old ladies—threatened to bury her somewhere if she didn’t get rid of her baby. Mom didn’t think to tell Lowell. Maybe because she feared he’d actually do what the old lady only threatened. Or possibly Needy Hobbs isn’t all that bright, either.

Now, I’m here, working at Rooster’s Tavern and living at an apartment complex called the Overlook. All while trying to build up the courage to tell Lowell who I am.

My plan—half-assed as it might be—was to walk into the Executioners’ clubhouse and out myself as his daughter.

Except I took one look at the overly masculine bar and the frowning face of head club bunny Jena, and I lost my nerve. I’m not a wuss about life. I know suffering comes with joy. Blah, blah, blah. But that doesn’t mean I was ready to be rejected. Or to find out that Lowell Sinema wasn’t the man built up in my head over a lifetime of my mom’s stories.

So I chickened out.

But my fake blonde hair and big natural boobs won me a spot as a club bunny. I get to live rent-free at the Overlook. A few days a week, I waitress at Rooster’s or the club-owned restaurant called Bambi’s Bar & Grill. I have a roommate and new friends, and life is just fucking great.

Did I mention fucking? Yeah, as a bunny, I’m expected to fuck and suck and, I don’t know, squirt maybe, for all these men. Almost twenty guys! Not all at once, I’m sure. When I take the job, I don’t know my plan. I clearly won’t fuck my dad. Will I fuck his friends? What if Lowell asks me to suck him off? If he does, can I explain the situation while simultaneously vomiting in horror?

Chickening out wasn’t just weak. It was dumb. Now, I’m on borrowed time.

But then my hero steps in and calls dibs on me. Yeah, nothing more romantic than one man insisting his friends can’t pound a strange woman he’s looking to monogamously pork.

While Conor Jessup calling dibs isn’t particularly classy, his declaration offers me the opportunity to get closer to Lowell without worrying about dodging dicks. I mean, I’d just fuck Conor, right?

And that would never be a problem.

Conor’s a dark-haired James Dean, but without all the sullen, woe is me, Rebel Without a Cause bullshit. Absolutely yummy, he literally struts through life. Well, possibly if someone were chasing him, he’d run. Otherwise, he’s a strutting master. I bet he could channel those hip movements into a very vigorous fuck.

Yet, rather than tipping me over and porking me something stupid, Conor pretends to be shy. He flashes me smiles and offers me a single pussy-clenching kiss. That’s it! Why call dibs if he wasn’t planning to take advantage of my available snatch?

I assume I should be patient. Arriving in Elko, I had my big plan. Then, I stumbled into the club bunny life, but I still expected to take charge. Except I’m not that kind of person. My uncle Clive calls me a rutter. I get comfortable and just settle in.

You lack hunger, he would randomly announce during dinners at his house where I lived for years. Long ago, your get-up-and-go just got up and went. You best see if you can track it down.

I only nodded when he said shit like that. What else was I supposed to do? I considered yelling, Life should be comfortable! Fuck hunger! My get-up-and-go can stick it up its ass!

Uncle Clive isn’t the type of man who responds well to sass. Fortunately, years ago, I got used to his pushy personality. That’s how I work. I find a groove and settle in.

And that’s what I did in Elko. I moved into my apartment, started my job, made a good friend, and lost the urge to face my father.

Except I can’t hide forever. My interest in Lowell is too obvious. Yet, somehow, I hide my lust for Conor just fine. Most people never seem to notice me checking out his fine ass. But I can’t so much as glance at Lowell without everyone eyeballing me for being a stalker.

I blame my mom for building up my father’s image in