Monster:Angels of Chaos MC(4)

By: Zoey Parker


A motorcycle club? That didn’t fit the town at all. It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. That’s why I settled here in the first place, just before buying the shop. I heard several customers murmuring among themselves, and I inched my way closer to them. Now that I’d heard of the club’s existence, I wanted to know more.

“She was such a sweet girl, too,” one of them was saying. “I never understood why she married him.”

“Suspicious,” another one declared, shaking their head. “Never believed it was an accidental death.”

“Of course not. Nobody mixed up with that club dies accidentally. Just because she wasn’t a member doesn’t mean she wasn’t part of it.”

“I heard that he still hasn’t gotten over it.”

“Would you? A dead wife and no answers? And the way she died…so awful.” They continued their gossip while I walked away to clear off another table.

I thought back to the men I saw riding past. I wondered which one they were talking about. Or was he even riding with the club anymore, considering that he hadn’t gotten over his wife’s death? If somebody I loved died tragically, potentially because of what I was mixed up in, I wasn’t sure I’d want to be part of it anymore.

I hoped they stayed far away from Main Street from now on, and if they didn’t, then I hoped they weren’t in the mood for coffee when they visited. I could only imagine how quickly my customers would fly away to the big chain coffee shops if a motorcycle club started hanging around, no matter how delicious my baked goods were.

I made it a point to busy myself and stop thinking about it. After all, no sense in worrying about something that hadn’t happened yet and probably would never happen.

I didn’t need any more scary people in my life. I moved to this town to get away from scary people. Or rather, one scary person in particular.





Chapter 3



I’m being led through the snow by a tall man who looks like he could crush me if he decided to. But I don’t have a choice. It’s either this or freeze to death in the backseat of my car.

We’re actually not far from where I pulled over, I realize. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was only a quarter mile or so. When the storm was at its peak, I couldn’t see a damn thing out the windows. I could have been driving down the middle of Main Street and never would have known, unable to see more than a foot in front of me. Now, I see the house more clearly as we approach. It sits by itself, green siding stark against the gray sky, smoke curling up from the chimney. I turn to check that my car is safe where it’s sitting. I can easily see it from here, even with the flakes that are still falling fast and heavy. I guess that’s how he spotted me.

A hound dog runs alongside us, bounding through the snow. I can’t help but laugh at its absolute joy. To think I’d probably come close to dying in the same snow this dog finds so thrilling. I wonder if he lives alone, this man, or if he has a family. The idea of freezing isn’t appealing but neither is being raped and murdered in some farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere.

I’m nearing exhaustion, slowing down even though he’s doing a good job of clearing a path for me through the deep snow. The hound trails behind him, nudging me. Sweet dog. This gets the man’s attention. He doubles back for me, taking my arm and pulling me along with him. I have no choice but to be dragged. I’m glad for it, though. I might have given up if left to my own devices. When’s the last time I ate? I don’t even remember now.

“Come on,” I hear him shout, urging me to keep up. “It’s getting heavy again. Just a little more.” We finally reach the back porch and stumble up the steps, pushed from behind by the wind that has indeed strengthened once again. We make it just in the nick of time. He opens the door and ushers me inside along with the dog, then pushes it shut against the howling wind.

I’m standing in a little farmhouse kitchen, complete with a fireplace along one wall. There’s a flight of stairs dividing the room in half, with the stove and other appliances on the opposite side of the hearth. The flames are blazing, which is a welcome sight to my half-frozen eyes. The whole room is quaint, cozy, and not at all what I would have expected.

“Motherfucker,” he breathes, panting for air. “I can’t believe how hard it’s blowing out there.”

“Tell me about it,” I say weakly, hardly able to speak. He must see me swaying on my feet because he rushes to me, sitting me in a chair by the fire.

“Let me take your gloves,” he says in his deep voice. “They’re all wet and cold. Same with your boots, they’re probably soaked through now.” He is right. These aren’t snow boots. I am totally unprepared for this. His rough hands rip the boots from my feet, along with the wet socks.

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